The first message arrived before dawn.
Elena woke to the vibration of her phone against the nightstand, a single buzz, then silence. The room was dark except for the dim city light bleeding through the curtains. Adrian was already gone; he always left before sunrise, vanishing into his empire before she even opened her eyes.
She reached for the phone.
No name. No number. Just one line on the screen:
"You don't belong in his world."
Her stomach dropped.
She sat up slowly, heart thudding against her ribs. It had to be a prank, a cruel one, maybe from someone who hated her sudden title, Mrs. Adrian Vega. She deleted the message, locked the screen, and told herself not to care.
But then came the second one.
"He can't protect you this time."
The words appeared just after she stepped out of the shower, steam still curling around the glass. The phone buzzed on the counter, sharp and insistent, like it knew when she was most exposed.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she set it down.
Don't react. Don't feed it.
She'd faced humiliation before, cameras, gossip, pity disguised as kindness. But this was different. This wasn't public mockery. It was personal. Watching.
By the time she reached the breakfast table, her appetite was gone.
The penthouse felt too large, cold marble floors echoing with her every step, glass walls that let the world see too much. She poured herself coffee just to have something to do with her hands. Outside, the morning sun hit the harbor, dazzling and indifferent.
The security staff passed her polite smiles as she exited for her charity meeting. None of them noticed how tightly she held her phone.
At Vega Tower, the whispers had changed.
She'd grown used to the stares, the quiet awe and judgment that followed her everywhere, but today, the looks lingered longer.
"Elena," one of the assistants murmured, half-pitying. "You should check the feeds."
"What feeds?"
But the woman had already turned away.
Elena pulled up the news site on her tablet. Her pulse faltered.
#MrsVegaUnderFire was trending.
A leaked email, fake, but too convincing, showed "Elena Cruz Vega" allegedly transferring funds from Vega Holdings to an offshore account. The text was doctored, but the damage was real. The comments were merciless.
"She's bleeding him dry already."
"Gold-digger strikes again."
"Didn't her father ruin enough men?"
Her vision blurred for a second.
She closed the tablet, forcing her breath to steady. This wasn't random. It was coordinated. Someone wanted to destroy her, not just socially, but completely.
The elevator opened to Adrian's floor. She hadn't planned to see him, but her legs carried her there anyway. She needed answers.
Adrian's office was half-lit, blinds drawn against the noon glare. He was on the phone, his tone clipped, commanding. When he saw her, he ended the call mid-sentence.
"Elena," he said, straightening. "What happened?"
"You tell me," she said, tossing the tablet on his desk. "You're the one who lives for control."
He scanned the article, expression tightening. "This is false."
"I know," she said. "But they don't."
He set the tablet down, eyes flicking up to hers. "Who sent you the messages?"
She blinked. "You knew?"
His jaw clenched. "I had a feeling."
"You had a feeling?" she said bitterly. "And you didn't think to warn me?"
"Elena…"
"I woke up to someone telling me I don't belong in your world," she snapped. "Do you have any idea what that feels like?"
Something in his gaze flickered, not guilt, but recognition. "Yes," he said quietly. "More than you think."
She didn't want that answer. Didn't want empathy. She wanted control, the illusion that she could still steer her own life.
Instead, she felt like a pawn again. A name to be manipulated. A wife in name, a liability in practice.
By afternoon, the storm hit full force.
Cameras waited outside Vega Tower. Journalists shouted questions, their flashes biting like sparks. "Mrs. Vega! Are the rumors true?"
"Did you falsify transfers?"
"Are you divorcing Adrian Vega?"
Security ushered her to the car, but the noise followed her even as the doors slammed shut.
In the tinted darkness, she pressed her forehead against the window. Her reflection looked pale, exhausted, a ghost in designer clothes.
When she reached the penthouse, Adrian was already there.
"I've contained most of it," he said without preamble. "My PR team's releasing a statement."
"I didn't ask for your rescue."
He exhaled sharply. "Stop fighting me, Elena. This isn't about pride. Someone is orchestrating this, using you to get to me."
She looked at him then, truly looked, at the way his shoulders carried the weight of entire empires, the exhaustion he hid behind precision.
"Who would want to hurt you this badly?" she asked softly.
He hesitated. "Someone who knows what I'd give to protect what's mine."
Her breath caught. "And am I still that, Adrian? Yours?"
Silence. Only the low hum of the city beneath them.
He didn't answer. Not in words.
He stepped forward, closing the distance between them, slowly, as if afraid she might vanish. His hand lifted, hesitated, then brushed her cheek. A fleeting touch, nothing more.
"You shouldn't have to be afraid," he said, voice low.
She swallowed hard. "But I am."
"I'll fix this."
"You can't fix fear," she whispered.
His hand dropped, his expression shuttering again. "Then I'll destroy the reason for it."
She didn't know if that was a promise or a threat.
That night, the messages returned.
She sat in bed, the lights dim, rain streaking the glass. Her phone buzzed once.
"You think he can save you? He couldn't even save her."
Her blood turned to ice.
Her fingers trembled as she typed: Who are you? What do you want?
The reply came instantly.
"Justice."
A photo followed. Blurry, taken from outside, of her balcony, tonight. Her figure silhouetted against the curtains.
She gasped, dropping the phone.
Heart pounding, she ran to the window. The street below shimmered with rain and headlights. Nothing but the hum of the city. But someone had been close enough to see her.
The fear crawled up her spine like cold hands.
When she turned, Adrian stood in the doorway, shirt undone, expression hard. "What happened?"
She didn't speak. Just held out the phone.
He scanned the message, eyes narrowing. "They're escalating."
Her voice broke. "They're watching us, Adrian."
He strode to the balcony, scanning the skyline with sharp precision. "Security will sweep the perimeter."
But she could see it, the moment he realized the danger wasn't just external. Whoever this was knew them. Intimately.
He came back to her, voice steady but laced with fury. "You're not to leave the penthouse until I say so."
She stared at him, breath unsteady. "You can't lock me away."
"I'm not locking you away. I'm just protecting my investment."
"Adrian…" Elena gaped at the words that came from his mouth. She was speechless, her mind simply goes out of proportion. She wanted to yell at him and cry at the same time not out of pity but of anger that she can't do something otherwise from her situation.
"This isn't about control," he said, stepping closer. "It's about keeping you alive."
Her eyes glistened. She was somehow touched by the last retort of Adrian and comfort herself at it. "You sound just like my father did before everything fell apart."
That stopped him cold.
For a moment, the silence between them hurt more than fear itself.
He turned away first. "I'll find them," he said. "Whoever's behind this, they'll regret touching you."
She wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that vengeance could feel like safety. But as the door closed behind him, all she could hear was the rain, and her own heart breaking under the weight of a love she could no longer name.
Hours later, as she tried to sleep, her phone buzzed one last time.
No words this time. Just a video.
Her, asleep in bed, from somewhere inside the room.