Chapter 5: The Public Lie.
---
The flash of cameras felt like bullets.
Alyssa stood beneath the blinding lights of the Blackwood Global media hall, wrapped in a gown the color of betrayal—ivory silk, diamond studs, and a lie stitched into every seam.
Her hand rested lightly on Damon's arm, a gesture rehearsed to death. His posture was perfect. One hand in his pocket, the other holding her like a possession.
And his expression? Ice. Sculpted. Corporate.
The photographers clamored like wolves outside a blood-soaked fence.
> "Mr. Blackwood, over here!"
> "Alyssa, give us a smile!"
> "Kiss! Kiss! We need the shot!"
Alyssa's smile was professional. Perfect. But it didn't touch her eyes.
Because the truth was—she didn't feel like a wife.
She felt like a mask.
Damon leaned in close, his lips brushing her temple, just for show.
> "Smile wider," he murmured. "This is the one Forbes will use."
She bared her teeth a little more.
Not because she wanted to. But because this was the game now.
Tilt. Glance. Wink.
The cameras went wild.
Every click cemented the lie.
---
Two hours later, the press conference was in full swing.
Damon took the podium with ease, wearing confidence like it was tailored.
> "Blackwood Global is evolving," he began, tone smooth as aged bourbon. "This isn't just growth—it's a legacy."
His gaze flicked to her, then back to the crowd.
> "And no legacy is complete without stability. Family. I'm proud to introduce my wife—Alyssa Hart-Blackwood."
The applause was polite. Pre-programmed.
Alyssa stood beside him like art in a gallery—admired, distant, untouchable.
She gave a soft wave, lips parted in a gentle smile.
But her stomach twisted.
Because in the front row sat a ghost.
Kayla Ortiz.
Senior journalist. Relentless. Dangerous.
And the only reporter who had dared to investigate Gregory Hart's fall from grace.
Alyssa's breath caught.
Their eyes met.
Recognition flared in Kayla's. Not just curiosity—but history. Memory.
She didn't see Damon's wife.
She saw Gregory Hart's daughter.
The room buzzed with questions.
> "What inspired this sudden marriage?"
> "Was it love at first sight?"
> "Will Mrs. Blackwood play a role in the company?"
Damon answered everything smoothly, like a man who'd prepped with lawyers and PR sharks.
Alyssa smiled on cue. Nodded in rhythm. Her presence was a sculpture—beautiful but mute.
Until Kayla raised her hand.
> "One question," she said, calm and firm. "For Mrs. Blackwood."
The entire hall quieted.
Alyssa's fingers curled slightly.
> "Yes?" she asked, her voice calm but alert.
Kayla leaned forward, eyes sharp.
> "You've never appeared in business records, press columns, or charity listings. No prior affiliations with the Blackwood family. Why now? Why Damon Blackwood?"
The question sliced like glass wrapped in silk.
Alyssa's pulse ticked behind her ears. She paused just long enough to make it look thoughtful.
> "Love doesn't ask for résumés," she said softly. "It finds you. Unexpectedly."
Laughter. Murmurs. Polite claps.
But Kayla didn't smile.
She just watched. Still. Focused.
Like a predator measuring weakness.
---
The moment they stepped into the car, Alyssa yanked her hand free from Damon's.
The door slammed. The silence was sharp.
Damon entered seconds later, unfazed.
> "She'll dig," Alyssa said before he could open his mouth. "You saw her face."
> "Then let her dig," he replied, loosening his cufflink. "She'll find what I give her. Nothing more."
> "She's not a tabloid rat. She's Kayla Ortiz. You don't brush her off with PR statements."
He turned his head slowly. His eyes were calm. Too calm.
> "Then don't give her anything."
> "I'm already something," Alyssa snapped. "I'm the daughter of the man your company helped ruin."
> "And now you're my wife," Damon said. "That should make us even."
Alyssa laughed once—sharp and humorless.
> "You really think this marriage evens the score?"
He didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
---
That night, she sat on the edge of the bed, still wearing the ivory gown, her hair falling loose over one shoulder, the diamonds at her ears suddenly too heavy.
Her phone buzzed.
EVAN: The photos are everywhere. You look… beautiful. Is it real?
Her throat tightened. For a moment, she didn't know what to say.
Then she typed:
ALYSSA: It's real enough to save you. That's all that matters.
She locked the screen and exhaled.
Long. Shaky.
She wasn't sure who she hated more—Damon… or herself for not knowing how to stop him.
---
Downstairs, Damon poured himself a drink.
The city lights glimmered below him like fireflies trapped in glass.
Camille entered, tablet in hand. Professional. Efficient. As always.
> "The press reception went as planned," she said. "We're trending on five major platforms. Stocks up three percent."
Damon nodded once.
> "One issue," Camille added. "Kayla Ortiz requested a sit-down interview. Just you and her."
He paused.
> "Her angle?"
> "She said she has… 'historical curiosity.'"
Damon's jaw flexed.
> "Decline. Keep her spinning. Give her sponsored exclusives if you must."
> "And if she keeps pushing?"
> "Then bury her story. Or her career."
Camille didn't flinch. Just nodded and walked out.
---
Upstairs, Alyssa opened the locked drawer in her vanity.
Inside—an old, worn folder. Frayed at the corners. Too many fingerprints.
Her father's name stared up at her.
Gregory Hart.
Next to it, another name. Circled three times.
Damon Blackwood.
Photos. News clippings. Court filings. Stock transaction records. Anonymous tips.
She'd been collecting them for years.
Building a trail.
She once thought her father was a casualty of bad luck. Now she knew better.
There was a pattern. A motive.
And Damon Blackwood…
was either the executioner or the puppet master.
She touched his name with the tip of her nail.
> "I'm not your pawn," she whispered. "Not then. Not now."
But the truth was—
She didn't know if she was in control anymore.
Or already halfway to checkmate.