The city's heartbeat was different the next morning, restless and rising before sunrise. Even twenty-eight floors above ground, Evangeline could feel it: she was a headline now, a search result, another "lockwood wife scandal" ticked box in an endless, churning newsfeed.
She should have been numb to it—she'd weathered breakups, business betrayals, and her own private failures—but all those wounds had been invisible. This was a wound broadcast in thousands of neon pixels, and each new alert throbbed with fresh accusation.
At six o'clock sharp, the doorbell rang.
Grayson was already at his laptop, hair still damp from the shower. He looked up, storm-gray eyes taking in the tension before Evangeline finished tying her robe.
"Don't answer it," he said.
She hesitated, but the insistent ring came again. She squared her shoulders—what was one more bullet, with the world already gunning for her?
When she opened the door, she found a waiflike young woman trembling on the hallway runner, awkwardly clutching a messenger bag. Her badge read "Aurelia News Service – Guest Contributor", her hands too unsteady to be a real threat.
"I—um—Ms. Hart? Evangeline Hart?" The girl's voice stumbled, not invasive—almost apologetic.
"Yes?" Evangeline's tone was gentle but wary.
"I'm Ruby Dunn. I—please, I'm not paparazzi. I interned with your firm last year. I saw the posts about the foundation, and—" Ruby fished for a folder. "It's about the leak. I think I know who started it."
Evangeline blinked, weighing trust against risk. She called softly for Grayson, who appeared in the doorway, gaze economic, weighing trespass and possibility.
Ruby shrank before his scrutiny, but pressed forward. "I don't want to get anyone in trouble. But you were always good to me, Ms. Hart. A friend sent me these—screenshots. Someone posting under 'BurntToast' is feeding board minutes and staff schedules to a backchannel Discord. It lines up with the posts targeting you."
Evangeline exhaled, the ache between her ribs easing. "Hand them over, Ruby?"
The girl passed her the USB. "You don't have to mention me. I just—you're not like them." She ducked her head and scurried away, her nervous courage sketching a line of light through the morning gloom.
Evangeline looked down at the folder, then up at Grayson as she snapped the door closed behind them.
"BurntToast," she said. "How very cloak and dagger."
He arched a brow, already extracting the drive for his own forensic review. "The internet is a kingdom of cowards."
A hush landed. The city waited outside.
---
Company Fallout — 8:10 a.m.
Hours later, Grayson faced his second least-favorite activity: emergency board conferencing. The foundation drama had hit page one of every morning syndicate; no reputable PR strategy could cauterize the narrative now—at best, they could contain the infection.
The long table was a tempest of blame: accusations, denials, board members talking over one another and Evangeline's name tossed around like a weather-forecast warning.
Grayson stayed silent, letting them spend their noise. Then, crisp, decisive: "Enough."
He stood, radiating cold authority. "My wife's professional record is spotless. I've arranged for a third-party audit and staff interviews. Anyone found leaking confidential material—board or not—will be exposed."
Maren Crosby, never missing a coup attempt, drawled, "Transparency benefits us all, Mr. Lockwood. But the optics—your new wife, your Foundation, your timing—"
He cut her off, voice iron: "I'll handle my marriage. You can refocus on your own department before the press refocuses on your art-therapy expenditures."
A murmur of not-quite laughter. Grayson's power remained intact—barely. But as he swept out, the vultures' eyes stayed fixed on the closed door.
---
Hartline Studio—11:32 a.m.
Evangeline barricaded herself inside her tiny, sun-dappled office, Ruby's screenshots splayed across her laptop. She scrolled through the posts—crude, threatening, taunting—rough outlines of staff calendars, warnings about "a new lady grifter in the Tower." She catalogued each one and started drafting a quietly furious report.
At noon, her assistant appeared, holding a battered delivery box with a sharpie-scrawled note: "You think you're safe—wait until tonight."
Evangeline stared at the box—light, unthreatening, but loaded with malice. She took three grounding breaths. Her hands shook. "Sam, lock the door. Nobody else in or out for an hour."
The box held a slice of burnt toast, charred almost to ash. The message was unmistakable.
Her jaw squared. She was no one's easy prey.
She documented everything and texted Grayson:
Suspicious delivery. Evidence secured. I'm fine. Heart beats faster than headline.
A two-word reply:
Stay safe.
Followed, after a beat, by a second:
Proud.
---
The "Happy Couple" at War — 2:30 p.m.
After a muted, terse lunch, Grayson called Evangeline into the penthouse living room.
She arrived with her laptop in one hand and a mug of cocoa in the other.
He pointed at the news feed on his phone: every channel cycling the same scandal, footage from their gala appearance looped between talking heads.
"We could issue a joint video statement. Try to kill the story."
Evangeline stared at the flickering screen images—her laughing, hair shining, Grayson's hand at the small of her back—distilled into thirty seconds of marketable myth.
She shook her head. "No. If we rush to defend, we confirm their suspicions. We say nothing unless there's proof."
Grayson weighed this, nodding once. "Agreed."
She settled beside him on the couch, dangerously close, and then did something that shocked even herself: she reached for his hand and laced their fingers together.
He met her eyes—question, surprise, and a flicker of dawning hope knitted between his brows.
"I'm in this," she told him, quietly fierce. "Not for damage control. For you."
His breath caught, just slightly. He tightened his grip. "No one's ever said that before."
Their phones vibrated with twin alerts:
BOARD SCHEDULED PRESSER – 6PM — ALL SPOKESPEOPLE TO ATTEND
Evangeline squeezed his hand. "We'll go. Together."
---
The Press Conference — 5:55 p.m.
Flashbulbs. Stale coffee. Perfume and sweat mixing beneath the ceiling fans as the lobby filled with city reporters, tabloid stringers, and far too many wannabe social media "journalists."
Grayson and Evangeline took their places at the head table, spine-to-spine, ringed by board members projecting forced unity.
Maren Crosby dominated the opening. "The Foundation's mission is our only priority—"
A shout from the floor: "Mrs. Lockwood, did you marry for PR or cash?"
Evangeline's eyes were steady, her voice low but ringing clear. "I built my business from scratch. My marriage has no bearing on the Foundation's integrity. Whoever is leaking board documents is the only one profiting from this circus."
A second barrage: "Are you sleeping in separate bedrooms?" "Is the Foundation broke?" "Did Mr. Lockwood push for this relationship on orders from upstairs?"
Grayson answered, clipped and unyielding: "We operate transparently. Personal smears will be handled with legal consequences."
A third volley—then Maren called for order.
Evangeline's pulse thundered, but she locked eyes with Grayson across the table. Encouragement, silent and strong.
Then, in a lull, Sam texted:
I have the BurntToast IP. Source: Lockwood Group staff server.
Evangeline half-smiled, just for herself. A hint of victory.
She stood. "Thank you for coming. If you believe in facts, you'll publish them. If not, you'll become them."
---
Aftermath — 7:12 p.m.
Back in the penthouse, the heavy tension finally cracked. Grayson stood at the window, hands flattened against the cool glass, city lights spinning beyond his reflection.
Evangeline joined him, silent, waiting.
He finally spoke. "This is on me. I should have predicted this, insulated you..."
She turned him by the shoulder. "That's old thinking. We're not your father's board, Grayson. I'm not here to play the wife-against-the-headlines game alone."
Surprise, warm and raw, flickered in his features.
She cupped his face—gentle, firm. "If you try to protect me by pushing me away, you're not just making it harder; you're making it lonelier." Her thumb brushed the stubble on his jaw, both reassurance and dare.
He closed his eyes for a beat. When he opened them, something had let go inside. "You're right," he whispered. Voice rough, honest. "I need you here. I want you here."
A long silence. Then, lighter, she whispered: "So. Want to help me sabotage dessert?"
A startled laugh broke from him—genuine, shaking off the last of his defenses.
"Only if I get to burn it this time."
They moved into the kitchen, not quite touching, but circling each other with new gravity. Evangeline unlocked her phone with a smile.
"They wanted proof we're real," she said, grinning as she pressed a spoon into his hand. "Let's give them something they can't print."
---
The Taste of Truth
That night, over cinnamon toast burnt lavishly on purpose, Evangeline and Grayson braided their laughter and their scars into a moment neither of them had ever truly known. Not false comfort, not escape—just the quiet defiance of two people facing the dark together, and daring it to blink first.
He reached across the plate. She met his gaze, steady.
No more acting.
No more armor.
And outside, the city was still hungry, the wolves prowling, but inside, for the space of one imperfect bite, they were as real as anyone could ever hope to be.