The gilded cage, for a few fleeting days, had developed a crack. A sliver of light, confusing and warm, had seeped in after the Met Gala kiss. Amelia found herself analyzing every silent interaction, every glance from Alexander, searching for a hint of the man who had kissed her with such devastating fire. But the fortress of his demeanor had been rebuilt, higher and colder than before. The ghost of the kiss lingered, but he seemed determined to exorcise it with sheer indifference.
The crack was violently widened on a quiet Tuesday morning.
Amelia was in the sun-drenched conservatory, attempting to sketch the turbulent ocean—a futile effort to capture a fraction of the wildness she felt trapped within. Mrs. Higgins entered, her posture, if possible, even more rigid than usual. She held a silver tablet, her lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line.
"Miss Swift," she said, her voice dripping with icy disapproval. "You have a visitor. A Ms. Eleanor Roche."
The name meant nothing to Amelia. "I'm not expecting anyone."
"Mr. Blackwood is aware of the visit," Mrs. Higgins stated, as if that settled everything. "She is waiting in the blue drawing-room."
Puzzled and wary, Amelia followed her. The blue drawing-room was a smaller, more intimate space, yet no less intimidating in its perfection. A woman stood by the fireplace, her back to the door. She turned as Amelia entered, and a smile as sharp as broken glass sliced across her face.
Eleanor Roche was beautiful in a way that was meticulously manufactured. Her blonde hair was a helmet of perfection, her clothes screamed understated wealth, and her eyes held the calculating gleam of a predator.
"Amelia Swift," she purred, not offering a hand. "The woman of the hour. Or should I say, the woman of Alexander's… unexpected whimsy."
"Can I help you, Ms. Roche?" Amelia asked, her guard instantly up.
"Eleanor, please. After all, Alex and I go way back." She let the implication hang in the air, a perfumed poison. "I thought it only neighborly to welcome you. And to offer a word of… advice."
She picked up a folded newspaper from the mantelpiece. It was a popular, viciously gossipy tabloid. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed it onto the coffee table between them. The headline screamed in bold, black letters:
FROM BANKRUPTCY TO BLACKWOOD: IS THE SWIFT HEIRESS A GOLD-DIGGER OR A MASTER MANIPULATOR?
Beneath the headline was a photo of her father, looking haggard and defeated outside the courthouse, juxtaposed with the official engagement photo of her and Alexander, her gaze looking up at him with what the article called 'calculated adoration'.
Amelia's blood ran cold. She felt the floor tilt beneath her. This was her nightmare. The public pity, the sneering speculation, the dragging of her family's name through the mud.
"The vultures are circling, my dear," Eleanor said, her voice syrupy with false sympathy. "A story like yours… it's simply too delicious. A fallen princess snagging the richest king. People are talking. They're saying Alex has lost his edge. That sentimentality, or something… baser… has clouded his judgment."
Amelia's hands trembled. She clenched them into fists, her nails digging into her palms. "Get out," she whispered, her voice shaking with rage and humiliation.
Eleanor's smile widened. "Oh, I'm not your enemy, darling. I'm here to help you see reality. Men like Alexander Blackwood don't marry for love. They acquire. They conquer. And when the novelty wears off, or when the business need expires…" she made a dismissive gesture with her hand, "…they discard. You're a temporary asset. And assets," she leaned forward, her voice dropping to a malicious whisper, "can be liquidated."
The door to the drawing-room opened and Alexander stood there, a dark storm contained in a black suit. His expression was granite. He had clearly heard every word.
"Eleanor," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "You are trespassing."
Eleanor didn't even have the decency to look startled. She turned to him with a coquettish smile. "Alex, darling! I was just welcoming your… fiancée to the neighborhood. And offering my condolences on the unfortunate press."
He didn't look at Amelia. His entire focus was on Eleanor, a predator locking onto a rival. "The press is my concern, not yours. And Amelia is my fiancée. Your… opinions… are not only irrelevant, they are unwanted. Leave. Now. And if you set foot on my property again, or approach Amelia again, I will have your little boutique empire buried in lawsuits so deep you'll never see daylight again."
The venom in his voice was real and terrifying. Eleanor's mask slipped for a second, revealing pure, unadulterated fury. She recovered quickly, sniffing. "No need for theatrics, Alex. I can see myself out."
She swept past him, the scent of her expensive perfume leaving a trail of toxicity in the air.
The moment she was gone, the room seemed to shrink. Alexander finally turned his gaze to Amelia. She was still standing rigid, staring at the damning newspaper, her face pale.
"Look at me," he commanded.
She forced her eyes to his, expecting to see contempt, annoyance at the trouble she'd caused.
Instead, she saw cold, ruthless fury. But it wasn't directed at her.
"Did she upset you?" he asked, his voice still tight with the effort of control.
The question was so unexpected, so far from what she had anticipated, that a hysterical laugh bubbled in her throat. "Upset me? She eviscerated me! And this…" she gestured wildly at the newspaper, "…this is a disaster! Everyone thinks I'm a gold-digging wh—"
"Stop." He closed the distance between them in two strides. He didn't touch her, but his presence was overwhelming. "What everyone thinks is irrelevant. What I think is the only thing that matters."
"And what do you think?" she shot back, tears of shame and anger finally welling in her eyes.
He looked down at the headline, then back at her, his stormy eyes blazing. "I think Eleanor Roche is a jealous viper who just signed her professional death warrant. And I think this," he picked up the newspaper, crumpling it in his fist with a violent twist, "is nothing but noise."
He threw the crumpled ball into the fireplace. "This changes nothing. The contract stands. The merger depends on the perception of stability, not the approval of gossipmongers."
"It changes everything!" Amelia cried. "My name… my father's name…"
"Your name is mine to protect now," he stated, with a possessiveness that stole her breath. "And I protect what's mine. This article will be retracted by tomorrow. The website will issue an apology. The editor will be looking for a new job."
The sheer, unchecked power in his statement was staggering. He wasn't just dismissing the scandal; he was annihilating it.
"Why?" she whispered, confused by his ferocious defense. "Why would you do that? The contract doesn't require you to protect my reputation, only to play the part."
For a long moment, he was silent, his gaze searching her face, tracing the track of a single tear she hadn't been able to suppress. The air crackled with the unspoken things between them—the kiss, the tension, this newfound, brutal protectiveness.
"The contract," he said slowly, his voice a low rasp, "doesn't cover everything. It seems some lines require… reinforcement."
He reached out, and for a heart-stopping second, she thought he would wipe the tear from her cheek. But his hand stopped inches from her skin, hovering in the air as if fighting an invisible forcefield. He curled his fingers into a fist and dropped his arm.
"Compose yourself," he said, the cold CEO mask sliding back into place, though it seemed more fragile now. "We have a charity luncheon at the Plaza in two hours. We will attend. We will smile. And we will show every vulture in this city that their whispers are nothing to us."
He turned and left her standing there, surrounded by the echoes of his wrath and the ghost of his almost-touch. The scandal had arrived, as she always feared it would. But Alexander's reaction had been nothing she could have predicted. He hadn't thrown her to the wolves. He had positioned himself as a shield.
And as the terror of the headline began to recede, replaced by the bewildering thrum of his protectiveness, Amelia realized with a sinking heart that the most dangerous scandal wasn't in the newspapers. It was the unwanted, treacherous fire his defense had ignited deep within her. The cage was no longer just gilded; it was becoming a labyrinth, and she was losing her way.