A D R I A N

The storm is over. The reports are filed. The headlines have quieted, mostly.

Outside my window, Seraphine gleams as if none of it happened. Bluefire Lagoon sparkles under filtered sunlight. The new safety barricades look like design choices. Guests sip cocktails beside trauma-proof signage, smiling for photos that won’t include the near-drowning or the sabotage or the way we nearly lost control.

I let my pen rest on the glass desk. For once, my inbox is empty. No new crises. No more trucks missing, no more rogue doctors chasing smugglers down cliffs.

I should feel triumphant.

Instead, my jaw aches from how hard I’ve been clenching it.

I roll my shoulders and lean back, letting the silence of the suite hold me. The leather chair creaks. I close my eyes, breathe.

And that’s when she knocks.

Three sharp raps, confident and  rehearsed.

“Come in,” I call, without looking.

The door opens with a soft hiss of hydraulics, and the air changes. Perfume, expensive and calculated, slips into the room like steam.

“Mr. Valcrosse.”

I open my eyes.

She’s tall, slim, early thirties, and dressed like a PR incarnate: a silk blouse the exact shade of champagne, beige pencil skirt, heels that could crack bone. A clipboard balances against one hip. Her smile is effortless, legs crossed, body angled like she knows every camera in the room, though there isn’t one.

She steps forward before I speak. “Anya Delacourt. I’m consulting with Marina on crisis optics. We met briefly, during the gala?”

I don’t recall her. That tells me enough.

She sets the clipboard on the desk, leaning forward just enough to give the illusion of intimacy. “Just wanted to thank you for handling the lagoon incident so decisively. Not every leader takes the reins like that.”

I don’t move. “It wasn’t about optics.”

Her smile sharpens, amused. “Of course. But the footage has over two million hits across platforms. Marina says the ‘Resort Prince’ is trending again. This time, with fewer bikinis.”

I arch an eyebrow. “That’s your idea of praise?”

She laughs, a warm and  practiced sound. “You misunderstand. It’s admiration, Adrian.”

She says my name like a secret.

I finally picked up the clipboard. “Is this about the revised language for the gala post-mortem?”

“Partly.” She taps a finger on the cover. “But Marina also wanted me to float the idea of a dual-feature, something more personal. A profile piece. You, the man behind the myth.” Her tone lowers. “You’re compelling, Adrian. People want to see more of you.”

I set the clipboard down. “They see enough.”

“Do they?” she asks softly. “Because what I saw at that lagoon was…” She trails off, stepping closer, close enough that her perfume curls behind my teeth. “Commanding. Protective. Raw.”

She smiles again. “You were unforgettable.”

I shift the clipboard between us like a barrier. “You’re here to work, Ms. Delacourt.”

“Anya,” she corrects, gliding one manicured finger along the desk’s edge. “And work is exactly what I’m offering. Image work. Legacy work.”

I stare at her. “My legacy doesn’t need soft lighting.”

“But maybe it needs softness,” she purrs. “There’s power in contrast. The heir who commands storms and also knows how to…” Her eyes flick to my lips. “…soften.”

I stand, slow and deliberate. It puts us nearly eye to eye. “You think I need polishing?”

“I think you’re dangerous,” she says, clearly meaning it as a compliment. “And it turns out, danger sells.”

She leans in. “We could do a series. Something raw. You are in your element. Maybe even some behind-the-scenes. You and me off the record.” Her voice drops. “People want chemistry.”

My stomach knots, not from attraction, but from revulsion masquerading as familiarity. I know this pattern. The tilt of her voice. The calculated glance. The power play wrapped in seduction.

It used to work on me.

It used to be exactly what I sought, quick control, sharp performance and clean exit.

But all I can think of is Elara.

Elara, firelit in a sea cave, trembling but defiant. Elara, calling bullshit on PR spin while cradling a boy’s life in her hands. Elara, who doesn’t smile like she’s selling something who doesn’t need to.

My body might still remember how to play this game, but my mind is nowhere near it.

Anya’s hand grazes my tie. “I’ve followed your work for years. I’ve read every article. I watched every clip. But seeing you there in the moment, shirt soaked, taking command, that was…” Her voice turns breathy. “God, it was magnetic.”

I step back, the motion controlled but final. “This conversation is over.”

Her smile falters for the first time. “I’m just offering you an opportunity.”

“No,” I say, voice low. “You’re offering me nostalgia. And I’m not interested in going backward.”

Anya’s eyes flicker, recalculating. “You’re turning down a coordinated campaign that would position you as the most desirable heir in the luxury world?”

I round the desk slowly, reclaiming the space. “Desire isn’t a campaign. And I’m not your product.”

She straightens, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her skirt. “You’re making a mistake.”

“No,” I say. “I’ve made mistakes. I’ve let people like you speak in my name, in my voice, using my image to sell a lie. I won’t do it again.”

Her mouth twitches more wounded pride than heartbreak. “Is this about her?”

I don’t blink. “You don’t get to say her name.”

That hits. Her expression flattens, lips parting like she might strike back, verbally. But she doesn’t. She adjusts her blouse with a slow, deliberate breath, composure reloading.

“You think restraint makes you noble,” she says. “But the press doesn’t care about your virtue. They care about the image. The tension. The sex of it.”

“I’m not interested in being consumed anymore.”

“Then you’ll be forgotten,” she replies, softly. “And she’ll still walk away.”

My pulse stutters, but only once.

Because that voice in my head the one that used to whisper control, is safety, performance is power, it’s gone quiet.

All I hear now is the sound of Elara’s voice in the dark, rasping, Don’t stop.

Not lust. Not need but trust.

I step in closer than she expects. Her breath hitches, but I don’t touch her. “If your campaign needs a scandal, find someone else to stage it with.”

Anya tilts her chin up. “Marina will want a meeting.”

“She can request one.”

At the door, she pauses. “The version of you I watched on the dock? Holding her like you’d drown without her?” Her voice turns mocking. “That version’s going to cost you everything.”

I meet her gaze, unflinching. “Then it’ll be mine to lose.”

The door clicks shut.

And the silence that follows is clean. No burn. No ache.

Just me, breathing.

Still mine.

I’m halfway through the revised safety protocols when my phone buzzes.

Once. Twice. Then a third time, long and urgent.

I glance at the screen, it’s Ethan.

Before I can answer, a notification flashes across the top:
“BREAKING: Resort Heir’s Secret Romance with PR Consultant?”

I freeze.

Then I open the message.

The headline screams across a gossip site already syndicating to socials. The photo beneath it is grainy, zoomed in, perfectly damning: Anya’s hand on my chest. My expression is unreadable. Her body angled toward mine like she’s mid-seduction.

The article spins a fantasy. A “private meeting.” A “long-standing flirtation finally going public.” Quotes from unnamed insiders. Speculation about how long it’s been going on, was she in the cave too?

My stomach turns to ice.

Because even though I said no, even though I stayed clean the story says I didn’t.

Control means nothing when the optics decide for you.

My phone rings again. Ethan. I answer with one word. “What?”

“You need to get ahead of this,” he says. “Now.”

I grip the desk, knuckles white. “Find out who leaked it.”

“I already did.”

A beat of silence.

Then Ethan says the name I already know.

“Marina.”

The line goes dead.

And I’m left staring at a false story that could cost me the only real thing I’ve ever had.