Chapter 8: Rewriting the Ending

Chapter 8: Rewriting the Ending

The hours after the fire were a surreal blur of flashing lights, the crackle of radios, and the scratchy wool of a police-issued blanket draped over my shoulders. We sat in a sterile interrogation room at the local sheriff's department, the lingering scent of smoke clinging to our hair and clothes. I was numb, my body humming with the ghost of adrenaline. Julian sat beside me, not speaking, but his presence was a solid, grounding weight in the chaos. He had handled the authorities with a quiet, unassailable command, providing a concise, edited version of events that protected me and explained the fire. He spoke of a disgruntled ex-employee and a confrontation that had escalated tragically. The full, bitter story of Synapse and revenge remained ours alone.

Through it all, his focus never wavered from me. Every few minutes, his gaze would find mine, his blue eyes asking a silent question: Are you alright? He wasn't the ruthless CEO or the embattled billionaire anymore. He was the man who had pulled me from a burning building, the man whose past had brought this nightmare down upon us, and who now seemed determined to carry the weight of it for us both.

Two days later, we were back in New York. The city’s frantic energy felt different this time, charged not with dread, but with anticipation. Julian had worked with the efficiency of a military commander, orchestrating his counter-offensive. He hadn’t asked for my permission, but he had kept me informed of every step, treating me not as a pawn, but as a partner. He was going to detonate a truth bomb in the middle of the media landscape, and he was going to do it on his terms.

The press conference was held in a grand ballroom at The Pierre hotel, a room dripping with crystal chandeliers and gilded plasterwork. It was packed. Every major news outlet was here, from legacy papers to the very online gossip rags that had gleefully torn me to shreds. The air buzzed with the hungry energy of sharks who smelled blood in the water. They were expecting a desperate spin job, another flimsy denial from a cornered billionaire.

I stood in the wings, my hands cold, my heart hammering against my ribs. Julian stood beside me, impeccably dressed in a dark, tailored suit that was his armor. He looked calm, but I could see the tension in the set of his jaw. He reached out and briefly squeezed my hand.

“He took your voice,” he said, his voice a low murmur meant only for me. “Today, I’m giving you a megaphone.” He looked into my eyes, and I saw the vow he’d made in my smoke-filled kitchen. I will burn down the world to make this right. I was about to see what that truly meant.

He walked onto the stage alone and stepped up to the podium. A thousand camera flashes went off at once, a blinding volley of light. He waited for the cacophony to die down, his silence commanding more attention than any shout could.

“Good morning,” he began, his voice calm and clear, amplified throughout the vast room. “I’m sure you’re all here for a story. You have one. A story of lies, of theft, and of a profound injustice. But I suspect it’s not the story you’ve been printing.”

He paused, letting the implication hang in the air.

“Let me be unequivocal. The narrative you have been fed is a fabrication. Elara Vance—the author you know as R.J. Lewis—is not my collaborator. She is not my accomplice. She is the sole, singular creator of the novel Obsessed, and she is the victim of a deliberate and malicious crime.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd. This was not the defensive posture they’d expected.

“The book I was set to publish, Beverly, was the product of a ghostwriter who, for his own reasons, stole Ms. Vance’s work and passed it off as his own. He then leaked a defamatory story to the press to cover his tracks and inflict maximum damage. The goal was never just plagiarism. It was character assassination. My character, and more unforgivably, hers.”

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze sweeping across the room, pinning every journalist to their seat.

“But that is not the most important part of this story. The most important part is the why. The man responsible for this was driven by a grudge against me. A grudge that, I have come to understand, was not entirely without merit.”

A stunned silence fell over the ballroom. This was unheard of. A billionaire admitting fault?

“Years ago, in a different stage of my career,” Julian continued, his voice resonating with a difficult, earned honesty, “my business practices left wreckage that I never bothered to look back at. I acquired a company that this man had built. I called it a strategic acquisition. He called it the destruction of his life’s work. He was not wrong. I was so focused on winning that I never counted the cost for those who lost. This entire, painful episode is the result of that debt coming due. I own that. I am profoundly sorry for the damage my past actions have caused, most especially to Ms. Vance, who was an innocent caught in a war she had no part in.”

I stood in the shadows, my hand covering my mouth, tears blurring my vision. He wasn't just clearing my name. He was atoning. He was publicly dissecting the man he used to be, the predator who had created Aiden, and he was doing it to give me back my life.

“Apologies are meaningless without action,” he stated, his voice regaining its command. “Therefore, to ensure no other artist has their voice stolen or silenced by the machinations of the powerful, Thorne Industries is immediately establishing a multi-million dollar literary foundation. It will be called The R.J. Lewis Grant for Emerging Authors, dedicated to providing financial support and resources to writers of exceptional talent who lack the means to bring their work to the world.”

My knees felt weak. He had taken my name, now stained and vilified, and was forging it into a shield for others, a legacy of empowerment.

“And finally,” Julian said, his eyes finding me in the wings. A flicker of warmth, of intimacy, passed between us, a secret message in this incredibly public moment. “Thorne Industries is retracting Beverly permanently. Instead, I am announcing that my company’s global marketing and distribution divisions will be throwing their full, unprecedented weight behind the proper publication of the original, masterpiece novel.”

He held up a book. It was a pre-production copy of my book, Obsessed, with its original, beautiful cover art.

“It is called Obsessed,” he said, his voice filled with a genuine reverence that silenced the last skeptic in the room. “It is written by R.J. Lewis. It is a brilliant, haunting, and unforgettable story, and she wrote every single word of it. I am not its author. I am, however, its biggest fan. And my new mission is to ensure the entire world has the chance to read her words.”

He placed the book on the podium like a sacred text and stepped back. For a second, there was absolute silence as the room processed the sheer scale of what he had just done. Then, the place erupted. Not with accusatory shouts, but with a frantic clamor of reporters screaming new, respectful questions. The narrative hadn't just been controlled; it had been completely and irrevocably rewritten.

Julian walked off the stage, bypassing the storm of questions, and came directly to me. The noise of the ballroom faded into a dull roar. He stopped in front of me, his face etched with exhaustion and relief.

He had given me back my words. He had given me back my name. And in laying his own faults bare before the world, he had given me the truth. The price of the scandal had been immense, but his payment, offered with the full force of his power and the whole of his changed heart, was absolute. The war was over. He had rewritten the ending.