A D R I A N

The click snaps through the quiet like a nerve. Elara goes rigid, breath catching, and something in me turns cold enough to cut.

“Come here,” I murmur. Not an order, an instinct. I wrap an arm around her waist and pull her into the alcove behind the lantern rack. She’s shaking, trying to fix her skirt with unsteady fingers. I help, quick, and she flinches like she doesn’t trust her legs.

“That wasn’t a guest,” she whispers. “That was..”

“Professional,” I finished. The shutter was too clean. Whoever took it was close. And patient. Her back hits the wall, palms flat, eyes wide in the half-light. She’s still flushed from me, throat marked where I kissed her, and all I can think is someone recorded it. Intentional. Waiting.

“Why us?” she breathes.

“Because someone wants leverage,” I say, jaw tight. Her fear spikes, and I cup her jaw, thumb brushing the warmth still on her mouth. “I’ll handle it. I promise.” She nods, small and quiet.  And that—her silence—is the thing that terrifies me most.

Morning hits like a bruise. No sleep, no answers. 

Elara texted at 4 a.m.—We need to talk.  

Yeah. We do. But right now I’m walking into something worse. Marina waits outside the legal suite, eyes already apologizing. Not a good sign.

“They’re tense,” she murmurs.

“They always are.”

“No. Today’s different.” Inside: counsel, two investors, and an envelope at my seat like a bribe at a funeral. Silver crest. Thick pages. Too prepared. The senior attorney clears his throat. “Adrian, given last night’s… incident..”

“Call it what it was,” I snapped. “A photo taken without consent.”

He winces but keeps going. “The board believes it’s time to introduce a stability option. For you. For Seraphine.” He pushes the envelope toward me. My name is embossed on the flap. I opened it. A buyout.  Not of shares.  Of my succession rights. A clean removal. A polite exile.

All because someone caught us on camera. All because someone knew exactly when to strike. I look up, and every face flinches. This wasn’t drafted overnight. They’ve been waiting for a scandal to pin me with.

“You want me gone,” I say, voice flat. “Say it plainly.” Investor One holds his hands up. “We’re not removing you, we’re offering protection. If the photo surfaces..”

“Has it surfaced?”

“No,” he admits. “But we have reason to believe it could.”

Reason. My chest tightens.  They knew. They knew before I walked in.

“Who told you?” I ask. They look everywhere but at me. The attorney keeps his tone smooth, almost caring. “This is a chance to step back gracefully. The brand can’t handle another PR shock before the festival.”

“Maybe the brand needs a spine,” I fire back. Marina shifts, eyes flicking to the folder. Her discomfort says more than the board ever will. I flip to the second page. A timeline. Effective immediately. No input from me.

“This was prepared days ago.”  Silence.
“You were waiting for an excuse.” No one denies it. Anger burns steady—not loud, not explosive. Just pure, focused heat.

“No,” I say, pushing the documents back across the table. “I’m not signing your lifeboat. If someone wants me off Seraphine, they can try the front door.”

“Adrian—”

“I said no.” And it echoes, sharp as a slammed fist.

I leave before they can corner me again. The hallway feels too bright, too narrow. I brace both hands on the overlook rail until my pulse stops hammering. Below, waves crash against the cliffs, relentless, familiar. The only steady thing left.

A buyout.  Drafted early.  Presented the morning after someone photographed us. That’s not a crisis response.  That’s choreography. I breathe once, slow and sharp, Elara’s texts buzzing in my pocket.

Are you okay?
Adrian, answer me.

I don’t. Not yet.  Because I can still feel her body shuddering from last night.
Still hear the shutter.  Still taste the moment everything shifted. She’ll think she caused this. She didn’t.  This was always about power, about timing, about someone wanting me off the throne I’ve spent years fighting for. I straighten, jaw clenching.  Someone is orchestrating this. And I’m going to tear their plan apart piece by piece.

When I push out of the elevator into the executive wing, the day already reeks of damage control. Staff whisper. Phones ring too fast. A pair of junior managers pass me and go silent mid-sentence like I’ve caught them with a crime scene. Ethan is waiting outside my office, arms crossed, jaw set like stone about to crack.

“You heard?” I ask. He nods once. “Someone’s shopping for a photo. Anonymous drop. No metadata. Looks like a professional DSLR.”

He hands me a tablet. A blurred still, the outline of two bodies against stone. Elara’s hair. My hands on her hips. Not explicit, but obvious. Intimate. Vulnerable. A slow, cold breath leaves me.

“They didn’t send the full image?” I ask.

“No. Just this.” He taps the corner. “They want leverage. Not a scandal. Yet.” Yet. The word crawls down my spine.

“Who received it?”

“Investor Godfrey. Someone in PR. Internal legal.” He hesitates. “Someone wanted the board rattled before you walked in.” Perfect timing. Too perfect. I pinch the bridge of my nose, thinking. Too long, maybe, because Ethan says quietly:

“Dr. Quinn called security. She sounded… worried.” Of course she is. She knows how fast this can destroy a life.

“Lock every internal leak,” I say. “Name everyone who touched the file. Who forwarded it. Who panicked.”

“And the photographer?”

“Find them.” He nods and disappears down the hall. My phone buzzes again.

Elara: Tell me what’s happening.
I’m coming to you if you don’t answer.

God, I want her here. But not in the blast radius. Not yet.

I close myself in my office before anyone else can sink their claws in. Shut the blinds. Press my palms to the desk until the wood groans. This is the part no one sees. The part I never let them. The moment the armor slips.

Because if I’m honest—really honest—I’m shaken. In a way I haven’t been since I was twenty-two and my father told me, “If you break, they win.” But right now?  I feel breakable. A photo. One fucking photo, and every supposed ally folded like wet paper.

They didn’t ask if Elara was okay.  Or if I was okay.  Or if maybe two adults caught in a moment of heat isn’t a damn crisis. No. They went straight for my throat.  Straight for my place.  Straight for the future I clawed into existence. My phone rings again—Elara.

I should answer.  I owe her that. But if I hear her voice, if she apologizes, I’ll come apart. I let it ring. Let it die out.  Then the silence slices deep. Why her? Why now? Because she’s the one thing they can weaponize. My want. My weakness. My stupid heart that walked straight into her hands.

I drag a hand through my hair, pacing hard, every breath tight. They want her to be the reason I lose Seraphine. I’ll burn the island to ash before I let that happen. I grab my jacket, ready to storm out. I open the door. Ethan stands there, holding a file like a bomb.

“This is about the shell corporation,” he says quietly. “We traced it.”

My pulse stutters. “Who is it?”

“Adrian…” He glances down at the folder. “You need to sit.” I don’t.

“Tell me.”

He hands it to me with both hands, like it’s dangerous. It is. I flip through page after page, dummy companies, offshore accounts, shell ladders. A paper trail meant to vanish. Almost perfect. Halfway down the last page, my breath stops. No. No, no, no.

“That’s impossible,” I whisper. But the letters don’t shift. The ink doesn’t lie. Ethan’s voice is low. “We verified three times.” My body goes cold enough to crack. The shell company trying to buy me out, trying to strip my island out from under me  belongs to a name I’ve spent my whole life refusing to bow to.

Haleon Routh. My father’s oldest rival. The man who swore the Valcrosse dynasty stole the ocean from him. The man who has been waiting decades for a crack in our armor.

“He’s coming for your throne,” Ethan murmurs. “And he’s using your scandal to do it.” My grip tightens until the paper cuts into my palms. This isn’t just sabotage. It’s war.