ELLE'S POV
We're in Damian's apartment. It's dim, lit only by the soft glow of the television. The prerecorded interview plays again. We watch in silence.
"I didn't want to go public," I say on-screen, voice trembling. "But it's important to share the truth. My past… my name, my history, it's complicated. I grew up with no parents, moved from foster home to foster home. The things I went through..." I dab at a tear. "They made me lose sight of who I was. When I finally found myself, I decided to let go of that old, painful life and start fresh. My foundation, Little Lights Home, is my way of building something real and giving back to those orphans, something I never had; love and stability." My on-screen self sobs harder.
The camera shifts to Damian and he quickly hands me a napkin, his hands gently patting my shoulder. "Elle has shown incredible strength," he says quietly. "I want to support her in every way I can."
Then the moment that stuns everyone:
"And…" I glance at the camera, forcing my lips into a small, calm smile, "we're expecting a baby. Maybe it's God's way of wiping my tears and helping me move forward. But some people... some people just can't let go of my past."
Then, I break down completely, burying my face in his shoulder. Damian pulls me close. "Please, respect our privacy during this time," he adds. "Elle has been through a lot. I just want to see her happy. She's been with me through the darkest times, and I'll stand by her." He leads me off the stage.
Silence in the studio. Explosion online. Reactions flood in; shock, sympathy, heart emojis, paragraphs for support. People see more than headlines now; they see me.
"I didn't think it would land so fast," I murmur.
Damian just watches the screen. Then he looks at me, a softness in his eyes I haven't seen before; a flicker of gratitude.
Outside the broadcast, donations pour in for Little Lights Home. People see hope, vulnerability, and resilience and they respond. The foundation's inbox fills with pledges, volunteers offering help, messages of love. I didn't think expect this kind of response.
"Looks like I handled your company better than you ever could," I tease, finally letting some tension out.
"Don't get used to it," he mutters, though I hear a hint of amusement in his voice.
My phone buzzes. Camila. I stare at the screen, not now. I hit ignore, typing a quick message instead:
"In the middle of something important. I'll call later."
I set the phone down.
Damian exhales, leaning back. The screen light washes over his tired face. I sit beside him quietly, giving him space to process.
"They believe us," I whisper, eyes on the screen. "The story, us."
He nods, hands brushing mine unconsciously. "They'll also see the cracks eventually."
"Maybe. But tonight, we survive."
He glances at me, the tension fading from his jaw. "You're relentless."
"You'd know."
The city hums below us. The apartment feels like its own bubble, cozy and homely. I glance at Damian, seeing not just the CEO, not just the man, but someone equally vulnerable, equally human.
He gets up and heads to the bar, grabs two glasses and pours scotch. I watch him make a cocktail with precision of a bartender which he pours in the other glass. I admire him quietly.
He returns, offering me the glass.
"Those things you said," he begins slowly. "About growing up. Was it all true? Or part of the damage control?"
I sip, letting the flavor settle on my tongue. "A man who can make a good drink for his woman? Mmmm."
He watches me instead of taking the bait.
I breathe. "I had no parent figure. My father died. My mom disappeared."
"No siblings?"
"One. A sister. We don't talk."
His expression sharpens, serious now. "Elle… I need to know if anything from your past could come back to hurt you or my company. I need to be sure this never happens again."
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "So I need the truth. Anyone who might come after you. Anything you've buried."
For a while, neither of us speaks.
"You know," I say finally, "you sound just like one of my foster parents. 'Tell me everything so I can protect you.' That's how it always started."
He looks up. "That's not what I meant."
"Maybe not," I say, looking at the empty glass in my hand. "But you do want control. You live for it. And I've spent my whole life trying to keep people from taking it from me."
He doesn't argue this time.
He leans back, shoulders sagging. "You're right. Control's all I know. You build walls… keep everything predictable… until someone walks in and wrecks the system."
I lift a brow. "And that's me?"
"That's definitely you."
Something dissolves inside me; not laughter, but something like relief. The tight tension of the night softens into something human.
I rest the glass on the table. "When I said those things on the interview; the foster homes, and losing myself, that wasn't a story. That was me. Every part of it."
"I know," he says softly. "It's the first time you've sounded like yourself."
I glance at him. "And you? All this control... that's your armor, right?"
He hesitates. Then: "My mother used to say I'd choke on my ambition one day. When she died, I realized I didn't even know her. Not really. I knew her numbers, her empire… not her."
There is a brief, fragile crack in his voice. A human one.
"Maybe we're both pretending," I murmur. "You with control. Me with survival. Same masks."
"Maybe the truth is we don't know how to be anything else."
A long silence settles between us, softer now, not the suffocating kind.
He shifts, almost reluctantly. "You know what all this means, right? We didn't just make a scene tonight. We committed to a narrative. People believe we're engaged. Expecting."
I roll my eyes. "We accidentally became public property."
"No," he corrects. "We intentionally became a public contract."
He studies me. "We'll have to make it real."
I blink. "Real... how?"
"Public appearances. Photographs. Statements. Consistency. No contradictions."
I laugh under my breath. "You're giving me a PR briefing?"
"I'm giving my… fiancée… the expectations."
The word hangs awkwardly between us.
I let it linger. "So, rings? Interviews? The awkward staged kiss?"
"All of it," he replies. "Starting with your Little Lights charity gala. It's in two days, isn't it?"
My heart jumps. "You're coming?"
"I'll make an appearance. But don't expect more funding. You have donations pouring in already and one very generous donor."
"Donor?"
He tilts his head. "D.C.?"
The air freezes in my lungs.
He saw it. He researched it.
"You did your homework," I whisper.
He shrugs, eyes locked on mine. "I don't tie my life, or my company, to someone without knowing her entire history."
"So you're punishing me for this identity scandal?"
He nods once. "No more extra funding. You'll run your foundation with what you have. And you have enough. This is your consequence."
"That's petty," I murmur.
"That's realistic," he corrects.
I huff a small laugh. "Fine. Bring your rich friends, then."
"I will."
I tap my glass. "And I'll play my fiancée role beautifully."
He smirks. "You're already too good at pretending."
I shrug. "Survival teaches performance."
The television dims, leaving only the quiet hum of the city below. For once, it feels like the noise outside can't reach us.
"You think they'll believe it?" he asks eventually. "The baby. The engagement."
"They already do," I whisper. "People believe what makes them feel something."
"You did that."
"No," I correct. "We did. For once."
"We did," I say. "For once, we were on the same side."
He gives a tired laugh. "Strange feeling."
"Not terrible."
He pushes up from the couch, walking to the window. "Get some rest. Tomorrow we continue."
"And you?"
"I don't sleep much."
"You should try," I say softly. "Control looks different when you're not exhausted."
He pauses in the doorway. "You're not easy to forget, Elle."
Neither are you, I think. But the words stay trapped in my chest.
He disappears down the hallway.
The soft click of the bedroom door echoes faintly.
I stare out at the glowing city, at the world that just believed our biggest lie.
And for the first time in weeks, I feel calm. Not safe. Not healed.
Just… alive.
Maybe that's what survival really is.