The morning headlines burned hotter than the coffee in my hand.
"Forbidden Heirs: King and Rossi Caught in Secret Rendezvous."
"From Enemies to Lovers? Adrian King and Isabella Rossi Spotted Alone."
"Romeo and Juliet of Wall Street."
Every headline dripped with scandal, every photograph a dagger aimed at my throat. They hadn't just caught us on the balcony. They had caught me holding her hand in the hallway, her eyes locked on mine, too close, too intimate.
By the time I reached my office, the world was already ablaze. Investors called. The board demanded explanations. My phone buzzed so relentlessly it felt like an alarm.
"Adrian."
Claire, my assistant, rushed into my office, tablet clutched to her chest like a shield. "We have a problem."
"I can see that."
"No, sir." Her eyes darted to the floor-to-ceiling windows, the skyscrapers gleaming like steel around us. "It's bigger than that. Your merger with Talbot Industries is on pause. They don't want to 'associate with instability.'"
I clenched my jaw. "Instability."
She nodded, hesitating. "And… your father is waiting in the boardroom."
Of course he was.
The boardroom was suffocating, a war chamber disguised with mahogany and glass. My father sat at the head of the table, his silver hair immaculate, his rage concealed behind a mask of composure.
"Do you see what you've done?" he asked quietly, which was worse than shouting.
I dropped the tabloids onto the table. "I see it."
One of the directors cleared his throat nervously. "Mr. King, the public is… entertained. Engagement is high. But shareholders don't want entertainment. They want certainty."
My father's eyes bored into me. "You will fix this. Immediately."
"And how do you suggest I do that?" I asked, my tone sharper than it should've been. "You want me to stand in front of cameras and deny something that doesn't exist?"
"Yes," he said coldly. "You will stand with Isabella Rossi and say it was a misunderstanding. You will bury this before it buries us."
His certainty grated on me.
And yet, somewhere beneath the fury, I couldn't erase the memory of her hand in mine, the way she'd looked at me when the flashes went off—like we were already doomed.
Across the city, Isabella Rossi sat in her father's study, the air thick with cigar smoke and fury.
"You've humiliated me," Antonio Rossi growled, pacing behind his desk. His gold cufflinks gleamed with every sharp gesture. "Do you understand what this looks like? My daughter sneaking around with the son of a vulture."
Isabella sat still, her hands folded neatly in her lap, but her pulse thundered. "We weren't sneaking around. The paparazzi ambushed us."
Antonio slammed his fist onto the desk. "Don't you dare argue semantics with me. Do you think the world cares about your excuses? They care about blood. And the Rossis don't bleed for Kings."
Her throat tightened, but she didn't look away. "You're blowing this out of proportion."
He leaned closer, his eyes sharp. "You'll fix this. Tonight. A press conference. You'll deny him. You'll make it clear the Rossi heiress would never touch a King."
Her chest constricted. The words tasted like poison even before she spoke them.
"And if I don't?"
His smile was cruel. "Then you're no daughter of mine."
That evening, the city pulsed with anticipation. News outlets prepared their cameras, gossip blogs sharpened their headlines. The world wanted a show, and the Rossis were prepared to deliver.
But fate intervened.
Instead of standing on a podium with cameras flashing, Isabella found herself outside, hidden in the shadows of her family's garden. The press conference had been delayed. Antonio was locked in negotiations.
And Adrian King was there.
She saw him before he saw her—tall, ruthless, carved against the city lights beyond the iron gates. He wasn't supposed to be here. Yet he was, like fate kept dragging them into the same storm.
"You shouldn't be here," she said quietly when he finally noticed her.
He stepped closer, voice low. "Neither should you."
The garden hummed with cicadas, heavy with summer heat. Between them stretched everything they weren't allowed to want.
"I read the headlines," he said.
Her lips twisted. "You and the rest of the world."
"You know it's not true."
She lifted her chin. "And if I do?"
He studied her, eyes burning. "Then why let them bury us with lies?"
Something in her chest cracked. She'd spent her life obeying, pretending, folding herself into the shape her family demanded. But standing here, with him, the truth burned brighter than the fear.
"You think I want this scandal?" she whispered.
"I think you want freedom," he countered.
Her pulse stumbled.
Freedom. The word sank deep, hitting a place she didn't know still existed.
And then—his hand brushed hers. A simple touch, but it felt like a match dropped into dry tinder.
She should've pulled away. She didn't.
The air snapped between them, charged. Their eyes locked, breaths tangled. Slowly, inevitably, he leaned in
And their lips met.
The kiss was fire. Fierce, forbidden, reckless. It wasn't gentle; it wasn't sweet. It was everything they weren't supposed to want, colliding in the dark.
For one dizzying moment, nothing else mattered. Not fathers, not legacies, not war. Just this. Just him.
But then—
Click.
The unmistakable sound of a camera shutter.
They broke apart, breathless, eyes wide.
From the shadows, a photographer darted away, lens glinting like a weapon.
"No…" Isabella whispered, horror flooding her face. "They caught us."
Adrian's jaw tightened. "Then the real war starts now."
The morning headlines burned hotter than the coffee in my hand.
"Forbidden Heirs: King and Rossi Caught in Secret Rendezvous."
"From Enemies to Lovers? Adrian King and Isabella Rossi Spotted Alone."
"Romeo and Juliet of Wall Street."
Every headline dripped with scandal, every photograph a dagger aimed at my throat. They hadn't just caught us on the balcony. They had caught me holding her hand in the hallway, her eyes locked on mine, too close, too intimate.
By the time I reached my office, the world was already ablaze. Investors called. The board demanded explanations. My phone buzzed so relentlessly it felt like an alarm.
"Adrian."
Claire, my assistant, rushed into my office, tablet clutched to her chest like a shield. "We have a problem."
"I can see that."
"No, sir." Her eyes darted to the floor-to-ceiling windows, the skyscrapers gleaming like steel around us. "It's bigger than that. Your merger with Talbot Industries is on pause. They don't want to 'associate with instability.'"
I clenched my jaw. "Instability."
She nodded, hesitating. "And… your father is waiting in the boardroom."
Of course he was.
The boardroom was suffocating, a war chamber disguised with mahogany and glass. My father sat at the head of the table, his silver hair immaculate, his rage concealed behind a mask of composure.
"Do you see what you've done?" he asked quietly, which was worse than shouting.
I dropped the tabloids onto the table. "I see it."
One of the directors cleared his throat nervously. "Mr. King, the public is… entertained. Engagement is high. But shareholders don't want entertainment. They want certainty."
My father's eyes bored into me. "You will fix this. Immediately."
"And how do you suggest I do that?" I asked, my tone sharper than it should've been. "You want me to stand in front of cameras and deny something that doesn't exist?"
"Yes," he said coldly. "You will stand with Isabella Rossi and say it was a misunderstanding. You will bury this before it buries us."
His certainty grated on me.
And yet, somewhere beneath the fury, I couldn't erase the memory of her hand in mine, the way she'd looked at me when the flashes went off—like we were already doomed.
Across the city, Isabella Rossi sat in her father's study, the air thick with cigar smoke and fury.
"You've humiliated me," Antonio Rossi growled, pacing behind his desk. His gold cufflinks gleamed with every sharp gesture. "Do you understand what this looks like? My daughter sneaking around with the son of a vulture."
Isabella sat still, her hands folded neatly in her lap, but her pulse thundered. "We weren't sneaking around. The paparazzi ambushed us."
Antonio slammed his fist onto the desk. "Don't you dare argue semantics with me. Do you think the world cares about your excuses? They care about blood. And the Rossis don't bleed for Kings."
Her throat tightened, but she didn't look away. "You're blowing this out of proportion."
He leaned closer, his eyes sharp. "You'll fix this. Tonight. A press conference. You'll deny him. You'll make it clear the Rossi heiress would never touch a King."
Her chest constricted. The words tasted like poison even before she spoke them.
"And if I don't?"
His smile was cruel. "Then you're no daughter of mine."
That evening, the city pulsed with anticipation. News outlets prepared their cameras, gossip blogs sharpened their headlines. The world wanted a show, and the Rossis were prepared to deliver.
But fate intervened.
Instead of standing on a podium with cameras flashing, Isabella found herself outside, hidden in the shadows of her family's garden. The press conference had been delayed. Antonio was locked in negotiations.
And Adrian King was there.
She saw him before he saw her—tall, ruthless, carved against the city lights beyond the iron gates. He wasn't supposed to be here. Yet he was, like fate kept dragging them into the same storm.
"You shouldn't be here," she said quietly when he finally noticed her.
He stepped closer, voice low. "Neither should you."
The garden hummed with cicadas, heavy with summer heat. Between them stretched everything they weren't allowed to want.
"I read the headlines," he said.
Her lips twisted. "You and the rest of the world."
"You know it's not true."
She lifted her chin. "And if I do?"
He studied her, eyes burning. "Then why let them bury us with lies?"
Something in her chest cracked. She'd spent her life obeying, pretending, folding herself into the shape her family demanded. But standing here, with him, the truth burned brighter than the fear.
"You think I want this scandal?" she whispered.
"I think you want freedom," he countered.
Her pulse stumbled.
Freedom. The word sank deep, hitting a place she didn't know still existed.
And then—his hand brushed hers. A simple touch, but it felt like a match dropped into dry tinder.
She should've pulled away. She didn't.
The air snapped between them, charged. Their eyes locked, breaths tangled. Slowly, inevitably, he leaned in
And their lips met.
The kiss was fire. Fierce, forbidden, reckless. It wasn't gentle; it wasn't sweet. It was everything they weren't supposed to want, colliding in the dark.
For one dizzying moment, nothing else mattered. Not fathers, not legacies, not war. Just this. Just him.
But then—
Click.
The unmistakable sound of a camera shutter
They broke apart, breathless, eyes wide.
From the shadows, a photographer darted away, lens glinting like a weapon.
"No…" Isabella whispered, horror flooding her face. "They caught us."
Adrian's jaw tightened. "Then the real war starts now."