Chapter 6: The Price of a Scandal

Chapter 6: The Price of a Scandal

The morning after the kiss felt like the world had been muted. The relentless Oregon rain had softened to a gentle mist, and a fragile, pearlescent light filtered through the cottage windows. The air between us was thick with unspoken words, a quiet hum of nervous energy replacing the storm of the night before. Our truce had shattered, but what lay in the wreckage was delicate, uncertain, and terrifyingly real.

Julian was in my kitchen, looking profoundly out of place as he attempted to work my finicky French press. The sleeves of his expensive shirt were rolled up, revealing strong forearms, and a lock of his perfect black hair had fallen across his forehead. He was the billionaire predator, yes, but in the soft morning light of my home, he was also just a man, wrestling with coffee grounds and the aftermath of a kiss that had undone us both.

“I, uh…” I started, my voice catching. “There’s a trick to that. You have to…”

He looked up, and the focused intensity in his blue eyes was softer now, tinged with the same uncertainty I felt. “A trick to everything in this house, it seems.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips, the first genuine, unguarded one I’d ever seen. It changed his entire face, making him look younger, less formidable.

In that quiet moment, a fragile hope began to bloom in my chest. Maybe this was possible. Maybe, out of the ashes of lies and theft, we could build something true.

Then his phone, lying on the table amidst his command center clutter, buzzed with a venomous urgency. It wasn't a call. It was a flood of notifications, a digital tidal wave crashing into our quiet sanctuary.

He picked it up, his smile vanishing as he scanned the screen. The relaxed lines of his body snapped taut, the formidable CEO slamming back into place like a steel door. “What the hell…” he breathed.

“What is it?” I asked, the fragile hope in my chest turning to ice.

He didn’t answer. He simply handed me the phone.

It was a link to a sleazy, high-traffic gossip site, the kind with screaming headlines and grainy paparazzi photos. The headline was a gut punch: EXCLUSIVE: Author Elara Vance, The Ultimate ‘Obsessed’ Fan? Inside the Billion-Dollar Book Hoax.

My blood ran cold as I read. It was a masterpiece of character assassination, a twisted narrative woven from half-truths and poisonous lies. It painted me as a fame-hungry, conniving gold-digger. It claimed my ‘obscure’ novel was a calculated plant, designed from the start to ensnare a wealthy target. My confrontation at his launch party was described as a ‘masterfully staged performance,’ a pre-planned scene in our elaborate drama.

The article quoted anonymous ‘sources’ close to the situation. “She knew about his book concept for months,” one source claimed. “The whole ‘plagiarism’ angle was their way of creating a sensational backstory for a collaboration they’d already planned.”

The worst part—the part that made me feel physically ill—was a quote that could only have come from Aiden. “He’s with her now,” the source revealed. “Hiding out in her little cottage on the coast, playing out the final act. It’s quite the romantic ending to their scam.”

He had used our location. He had used the truth of our forced proximity to validate his fiction. He wasn’t just attacking my reputation; he was defiling my home, my sanctuary, turning it into the set for his sordid play.

“No,” I whispered, stumbling back a step, my hand flying to my mouth.

This wasn’t just a lie. It was an invasion. Aiden had felt us closing in, and instead of running, he had launched a nuclear strike, aimed directly at my heart.

Numbly, I grabbed my own laptop, my fingers shaking as I navigated to my author page, to the forums where my loyal readers had once been my army. The transformation was devastating. My small, supportive community had become a viper pit of betrayal and rage.

“She played us all for fools,” the top comment read, from SeaReader88, the very fan who had first alerted me to the theft. “We donated to her ‘Justice Fund’ so she could fly to New York and stage a fake fight with her billionaire boyfriend? I feel sick.”

“I defended you,” another wrote. “I fought for you. And you were just another grifter. I’m burning my copy of Obsessed.”

Hashtags were trending. #AuthorHoax. #GoldDiggerVance.

They believed it. The people who had understood the soul of my work now believed I had no soul at all. He hadn’t just ruined my reputation; he had poisoned my past, turning my one small, pure success into a source of shame. The pain was absolute, a crushing weight that stole the air from my lungs. I sank onto a kitchen chair, the laptop screen blurring through a film of hot, angry tears. My words, my fans, my name—he had taken it all.

Julian moved, snatching his phone back. He saw the comments on my screen, saw the silent, defeated tears tracking paths down my cheeks. And in that moment, something in him broke. The cool, calculating strategist vanished, replaced by a cold, protective fury that was terrifying in its intensity. The pain he saw in me, the pain his past actions had indirectly caused, had just become his own.

He strode to the corner of the room where his other phones lay charging. He picked one up, his thumb flying across the screen.

“Marcus,” he barked into the phone, his voice like cracking ice. “The Vanguard Post article. I want it gone. I don't mean a retraction, I mean scrubbed from the internet. Call their parent company. Find a price. If there isn't one, buy the parent company and kill it yourself. You have one hour.”

He hung up before the person on the other end could reply and immediately dialed another number.

“Security team,” he snapped. “Aiden’s location. I’m done waiting. I don't care about legalities anymore. I want him found. Triangulate his phone, his credit cards, put every asset we have on finding him. I want eyes on him by sundown.”

He was a force of nature, a whirlwind of power and rage unleashed in my tiny cottage. He paced the worn floorboards, issuing commands that could move markets and reshape lives, all with a single-minded, chilling focus. This was no longer the calculated response of a CEO managing a crisis. This was personal. This was vengeance.

When he finally fell silent, the room vibrated with the aftershocks of his power. He turned to me, his face pale, his blue eyes blazing with an emotion I couldn't name. It was rage, yes, but it was threaded through with guilt and a fierce, possessive protectiveness that made my breath catch.

He crossed the room and knelt in front of me, his hands gently taking mine. They were shaking.

“I did this,” he said, his voice raw. “My past. My fight with him. It led him here, to you. I brought this storm to your door, Elara.”

I looked at him, at this powerful, ruthless man on his knees in my kitchen, taking the blame for a wound that felt fatal. The tears were still falling, but something else was rising through the pain: a sliver of strength, borrowed from his own.

“He took your words,” Julian murmured, his thumbs stroking the backs of my hands. His gaze was a vow. “I let that happen. But I will not let him take your name. This fight isn't about a book anymore. It's not about my reputation. It’s about you. And I will burn down the entire world to make this right.”