The promotion made headlines.
Not officially, of course.
But in whispers. In side-eyes. In late-night texts she wasn't supposed to see.
"She slept her way to the top."
"Of course Hart would pick someone like her."
"Bet she doesn't even know what her job is."
I told myself I didn't care.
I told myself they were just jealous.
Just afraid.
Just weak.
But when I walked into the conference room and the room went silent—not out of respect, but judgment—I felt it settle under my skin like poison.
I had worked hard. Studied late. Stayed longer.
But none of it mattered now.
Not when his name was louder than mine.
Later that night, I found myself in Ethan's apartment—again.
He poured us wine, his sleeves rolled up, like this was normal. Like we were just a couple winding down after a long day.
"I saw the look on your face today," he said without turning.
I didn't answer.
"I can make them stop," he added, swirling his glass.
"How?" I asked, voice tight. "Fire everyone who whispers my name?"
"If I have to."
I laughed, but it wasn't funny. "Do you even hear yourself?"
He turned to me then, slowly. Calm. Cold. "They don't get to touch what's mine."
There it was again.
That word.
Mine.
"Maybe that's the problem, Ethan," I said, setting down my glass. "I don't want to be a possession."
He stepped closer. "You're not. You're a priority."
My stomach twisted. "Is there a difference?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he brushed a hair from my cheek, eyes burning.
"I've made you untouchable, Vanessa. That comes at a cost. You want the freedom? Or the throne?"
My breath caught.
Because I already knew the truth.
I couldn't have both.