Mia wakes to the sound of her phone exploding.
Literally exploding—notifications pinging so rapidly it sounds like a machine gun. She groans, reaching blindly for the nightstand, squinting at the screen with one eye.
847 notifications.
"What the hell?" she mumbles.
Beside her, Alexander stirs. "What's wrong?"
"My phone is having a seizure." Mia scrolls through the notifications. Instagram, Twitter, Facebook—accounts she barely uses are suddenly flooded with activity. Tags, mentions, messages from people she's never heard of.
Alexander grabs his own phone. Goes very still.
"Alexander? What is it?"
He shows her his screen. The headline makes her stomach drop.
**"The Clapback Heard Round the World: Mia Kane Destroys Victoria Ashford at Winter Gala"**
Below it, a video. The confrontation from last night. Crystal clear audio, perfect angles, millions of views already.
"Oh god," Mia breathes.
Alexander scrolls. There are dozens of articles. Every major society blog, several news outlets, even mainstream media picking up the story.
**"Nobody Who Got Pregnant: Mia Kane's Viral Moment"**
**"Foster Care to Fifth Avenue: The Real Cinderella Story"**
**"Alexander Kane's Wife Proves She's Nobody's Victim"**
**"That Dress, That Takedown: Who Is Mia Kane?"**
The videos have been viewed millions of times. Clips, GIFs, screenshots—her face everywhere. The moment she said "he still chose me" has become a meme. People are dissecting her dress, her makeup, her body language.
She's gone viral.
"I'm going to be sick," Mia says, stumbling toward the bathroom.
She makes it just in time. Morning sickness plus anxiety is a terrible combination. Alexander appears with water and crackers, rubbing her back while she dry heaves over the toilet.
"This is a nightmare," Mia manages between heaves.
"This is temporary. Viral moments fade. Something else will be trending by tomorrow."
"Alexander, there are GIFs of my face. Strangers are analyzing my marriage on Twitter. Someone made a TikTok about my dress with two million likes." She sits back, accepting the water with shaking hands. "How is this temporary?"
His phone rings. He glances at it, grimaces. "It's my publicist. I should take this."
"Take it. Maybe she can make this go away."
Alexander answers, listens. His expression shifts—surprise, then something that looks almost like satisfaction.
"Are you sure? That many?" More listening. "No, don't issue a statement. Not yet. I need to talk to Mia first." He hangs up.
"What?" Mia asks. "What did she say?"
"The response is overwhelmingly positive. Ninety-two percent of comments are supportive. You're being called brave, authentic, relatable. Grace Park's studio has been flooded with requests—apparently her Instagram gained fifty thousand followers overnight. And—" He pauses. "Multiple galleries are asking about your art. Marcus Webb isn't the only one interested anymore."
Mia's brain short-circuits. "That's... that's good, right?"
"That's incredible. Mia, you just became one of the most searched people in America. Everyone wants to know who you are."
"But they already think they know. Foster kid, got pregnant, married rich. That's the narrative."
"So change it." Alexander sits beside her on the bathroom floor—they really need to stop having important conversations here. "Tell your story. Your way. On your terms."
"How?"
"Interview. One major publication. You control the narrative before someone else does." His eyes are serious. "But only if you want to. This is your choice."
Mia's phone buzzes again. She looks at it—a message from Grace.
**Grace: GIRL. My phone is RINGING OFF THE HOOK. I have THREE celebrity stylists asking about your dress. Whatever you did last night, THANK YOU.**
Another message. This one from Marcus Webb, the gallery owner.
**Marcus: My offer stands. But I'm no longer the only interested party. Call me. We should discuss your options.**
Her life is changing in real time. Spiraling into something unrecognizable.
"I need to think," Mia says. "Can I have a few hours? Before we decide anything?"
"You can have as long as you need. But Mia—" Alexander's hand finds hers. "Whatever you choose, I support it. Interview or silence. Publicity or privacy. Just tell me what you want."
What does she want?
---
Eleanor arrives at noon with coffee and the Sunday papers.
"I assume you've seen the coverage," she says, spreading newspapers across the dining table. Every single one features Mia. Photos from the gala, stills from the video, analysis pieces about her dress, her background, her marriage.
**The Times:** "Mia Kane and the New Face of High Society"
**The Post:** "From Foster Care to Fortune: A Modern Fairy Tale?"
**Vogue Online:** "The Green Dress That Broke the Internet"
"This is insane," Mia says, staring at her own face repeated across a dozen publications.
"This is opportunity." Eleanor sits, crossing her legs elegantly. "The question is: what do you do with it?"
"Alexander's publicist wants me to do an interview."
"Smart. Control the narrative before the tabloids write it for you." Eleanor sips her coffee. "But choose carefully. The wrong publication, the wrong angle—it could backfire spectacularly."
"What would you do?" Mia asks.
Eleanor considers. "Honestly? I'd lean into it. The foster care, the struggle, the authenticity. People are responding to you because you're real. You didn't grow up with money. You don't pretend to be something you're not. That's refreshing in our world." She meets Mia's eyes. "Use that. Show them who you really are. Not the gold digger they assumed, but the woman my son chose."
"You're advising me to be myself?"
"I'm advising you to be strategic about being yourself." Eleanor's smile is sharp. "There's a difference. You control what they see, when they see it, how they see it. That's power."
"I don't want power. I just want to paint and raise my baby and not be analyzed by millions of strangers."
"Then you shouldn't have married into this family." Eleanor's tone gentles. "But you did. And now you have a choice—let them define you, or define yourself. I know which option I'd choose."
After Eleanor leaves, Mia sits with the newspapers, studying her own image.
In the photos, she looks confident. Strong. Like she belongs in that emerald dress, in that ballroom, in Alexander's world.
She barely recognizes herself.
Sophie video calls at two PM.
"Okay, so you're famous now," Sophie says without preamble. "How does it feel?"
"Terrifying. Surreal. Like I'm watching my life happen to someone else."
"Well, for what it's worth, everyone I know is obsessed with you. My coworkers are asking if I can introduce them. My cousin wants to know where you got your dress. And my mother—my MOTHER, Mia—asked if you'd come to dinner next week because she wants to meet the woman who 'put that awful Ashford girl in her place.'"
Despite everything, Mia laughs. "Your mother called Victoria awful?"
"My mother is an excellent judge of character." Sophie's expression turns serious. "But real talk—are you okay? This is a lot. If you need to talk, I'm here."
"I know. And I appreciate it." Mia sighs. "Alexander wants me to do an interview. Take control of the narrative. But I don't know if I want to share my story with millions of strangers."
"Then don't. Or do. But whatever you choose, make sure it's for you. Not for Alexander, not for Eleanor, not for public opinion. For you."
There's that question again. What do you want?
Mia is starting to figure it out.
---
She finds Alexander in his office, surrounded by laptop screens and reports.
"I want to do the interview," she says from the doorway.
He looks up, surprised. "You're sure?"
"No. But I'm doing it anyway." She enters, sits across from his desk. "On my terms though. I choose the publication. I approve the questions. And I want to talk about my art, not just the drama."
"Done. All of it." Alexander's smile is proud. "Which publication?"
"I was thinking... not a society magazine. Not Vogue or Vanity Fair or any of those. Something real. Something that reaches people who actually relate to my story."
"What are you thinking?"
"There's this online platform—Real Talk. They do long-form interviews with women from non-traditional backgrounds. Artists, entrepreneurs, women who built themselves from nothing." Mia pulls it up on her phone. "They have twelve million subscribers. Young women, mostly. People who might actually care about what I have to say beyond the scandal."
Alexander reads the site, nods slowly. "I like it. It's smart. Reaches a different demographic than the traditional society press."
"And it's honest. They don't do puff pieces. They ask hard questions. But they're fair."
"Can you handle hard questions?"
"I survived your mother's interrogation. I think I can handle a journalist." Mia straightens. "I want to tell the truth. About foster care, about struggling, about why I married you. Not the sanitized version. The real version."
"Including the contract?"
She hesitates. "Not the specific terms. But yes, that it exists. That we're being practical about our future. People already know. Might as well address it."
"My publicist will have a heart attack."
"Your publicist works for you. Not the other way around." Mia meets his eyes. "If I'm doing this, I'm doing it honestly. Can you handle that?"
Alexander stands, moves around the desk until he's in front of her. His hands frame her face, gentle.
"I can handle anything as long as you're beside me," he says quietly. "Tell them everything. The contract, the pregnancy, the marriage. Show them who you really are. I'm not afraid of the truth."
"Even if it makes you look bad?"
"Even then." He kisses her forehead. "I chose you. I'm proud of that choice. Let them see why."
Mia's throat tightens. "You're making this complicated again."
"I know. It's kind of my thing."
---
The interview is scheduled for Friday.
Five days to prepare. To figure out what she wants to say, how she wants to say it. The journalist—Emma Rodriguez—sends questions in advance. They're personal, probing, exactly as Mia expected.
*What was it like growing up in foster care?*
*How did you meet Alexander Kane?*
*Why did you agree to a contract marriage?*
*Do you love your husband?*
That last question stops Mia cold.
Do you love your husband?
She doesn't know how to answer. They've been married three weeks. Known each other barely four months. Everything between them has been rushed, pressured, built on contracts and convenience.
But when she thinks about leaving—about that two-year mark when she could walk away—her chest hurts.
She's falling. Maybe has already fallen. Somewhere between morning sickness support and ballroom confrontations and quiet evenings eating pizza on the couch.
She's falling in love with Alexander Kane.
The realization terrifies her.
That night, lying in bed beside him, Mia watches Alexander sleep. His face is softer in sleep, the CEO mask gone. He looks younger, almost vulnerable.
His hand rests on her stomach, protective even unconscious.
"I think I love you," she whispers, quiet enough that he can't hear. "And I have no idea what to do about that."
Alexander doesn't respond. Doesn't wake. But his hand tightens slightly over their baby, and Mia lets herself hope that maybe—eventually—he'll feel the same.
Outside, Manhattan glitters. Below, millions of people are talking about her, analyzing her, deciding who she is.
But up here, in the dark, in their bed, it's just them.
A fake marriage becoming real.
A contract turning into something more.
A viral moment transforming into a life.
Mia falls asleep thinking about Friday's interview. About the question she still doesn't know how to answer.
Do you love your husband?
She has five days to figure it out.
Or maybe, she thinks as she drifts off, five days to admit what she already knows.