POV: Lydia Hart
I used to think love made you fearless.
That when you found the right person, the world would somehow fit perfectly around you: no doubts, no cracks, just warmth and belonging.
But sitting in my office that morning, with the news playing on my computer screen, I felt anything but fearless.
"Breaking news this hour; sources confirm that CrossTech Industries is currently under internal investigation following reports of a financial irregularity within one of its philanthropic divisions. While company representatives deny wrongdoing, questions remain about oversight and corporate transparency…"
The reporter's voice was calm. Detached. But to me, the words might as well have been explosives.
CrossTech. Damian's company.
The words on the screen blurred. My coffee had gone cold. I reached for my phone and dialed his number immediately.
"Lydia," he answered on the first ring, voice rough, tired, maybe even irritated. "I was going to call you."
"Is it true?" I whispered. "The audit? The press is already talking about it."
He sighed heavily. "There's been a mistake. A leak. Someone inside took data out of context. I'm handling it."
"Handling it how?"
"I can't discuss it over the phone," he said. "Please trust me."
Trust me.
It should've been easy. I'd never had a reason not to trust him. But the way he said it sounded less like reassurance and more like a warning.
By noon, the newsroom chatter had spread across the firm like wildfire. People whispered his name in hallways, traded theories over lunch.
"Money laundering, maybe," someone said.
"Tax evasion," another guessed.
"Or maybe he's not as clean as he looks."
I slammed my office door to shut them out, but their words lingered like smoke.
When I couldn't take it anymore, I called the one person who always made things make sense.
Alex.
She answered on the second ring. "Lydia?"
Her voice, calm, professional was the first steady thing I'd heard all day.
"Did you see the news?" I asked. "About Damian?"
A pause. "Yes. I did."
"What should I do?" I hated the way my voice broke. "Everyone's saying things, and he won't explain"
"Lydia," she said gently, "you need to breathe."
I did. Slowly. Because that's what Alex always made me do: pause, think, stay grounded.
She continued, "If Damian says it's a misunderstanding, give him time. But also… protect yourself. Don't sign anything, don't release statements. Let him handle it."
I nodded, even though she couldn't see me. "You think he's innocent?"
"I think," she said after a beat, "that sometimes people surprise us. Just keep your eyes open."
Her tone was careful. Neutral. Almost too careful.
But I didn't notice that then. I only felt grateful, as always, that she was there.
That night, Damian came home late. He loosened his tie, poured himself a glass of whisky, and sat opposite me without a word.
"You could've called," I said quietly.
"I couldn't."
"Couldn't, or didn't?"
His eyes flickered the briefest sign of guilt. "You're upset."
"Of course I'm upset," I snapped. "The media's crucifying you. Half the firm thinks I'm engaged to a criminal. Tell me what's going on, Damian."
He hesitated, then said, "Someone leaked an incomplete report. It makes it look like there's misappropriation in our charity division. There isn't. But by the time we prove that, the damage will be done."
"Who would leak it?"
He exhaled slowly, staring at the amber liquid in his glass. "I have my suspicions."
"Who?"
He looked at me then: sharp, unreadable. "Doesn't matter. I'll find them."
The way he said it sent a chill through me.
When I went to bed that night, I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about the Lydia I'd been six months ago: happy, naive, certain that life had finally given her everything she'd ever wanted.
Now, I wasn't sure what I had at all.
I thought about the way Damian had pulled away lately: distracted, distant. The missed calls. The late nights. The sighs he didn't think I noticed.
And beneath all of it… I thought about Alex.
My best friend. My sister in everything but blood.
She'd always warned me about love; that it makes you blind, makes you vulnerable.
But lately, something about her had changed. Her voice when she talked about Damian. The way she'd gone quiet at the engagement dinner. The strange tension between them that I couldn't quite name.
Was it my imagination?
I shook my head, pushing the thought away.
Alex would never hurt me.
Never.
The next morning, my phone buzzed again, this time with a message from a blocked number:
If you really believe he's innocent, ask him about the Paris contract.
I froze.
Paris. The trip we'd planned. The contract he'd mentioned in passing but never explained.
My hands trembled as I typed back, Who is this?
No reply.
Just silence.
By noon, the press had doubled down; headlines everywhere. "CrossTech CEO Faces Internal Turmoil" … "Philanthropy or Fraud?"
Damian didn't call. Didn't text. Didn't explain.
And for the first time since I'd said yes to his proposal, I felt something I never thought I would with him; fear.
Fear that maybe the man I loved wasn't who I thought he was.
That evening, I called Alex again.
"I got a message," I said. "Anonymous. They said to ask Damian about the Paris contract."
There was a pause long enough to make me wonder if the line had cut off.
Then she said, "That's strange. Do you think it's someone from the media?"
"Maybe."
"Don't mention it to him yet," she said quickly. "If it's a setup, you'll only make it worse. Just… watch. Listen. And if you find anything off, tell me first."
"Okay," I whispered.
"Promise me, Lydia."
"I promise."
Her voice softened. "Good girl."
And just like that, the tension in my chest eased a little.
Because that's what Alex always did; made me feel safe. Protected.
I didn't realize until much later that safety was exactly what she was weaponizing.
That night, as I scrolled through the endless articles about Damian's company, I caught sight of a quote from a "legal source close to the matter" who'd described the internal leak as "intentional and calculated."
I didn't know why, but the phrasing made something inside me twist.
Intentional and calculated.
It didn't sound like Damian.
But it did sound like someone else I knew.
Someone who never lost. Someone who always played to win.
I closed the laptop and told myself I was being paranoid.
But the whisper wouldn't go away: that quiet, traitorous thought:
What if Alex knows more than she's telling me?