There's another file," my father said coldly. "Leaked anonymously."
Another.
Not a photo this time.
A video.
And I didn't even remember filming it.
The walk back from the press chamber was silent.
Killian didn't speak. Neither did I.
But the space between us crackled with tension. Like a fuse had already been lit and we were both pretending it wasn't heading for something explosive.
By the time we stepped into the East Wing again, my hands were shaking.
"I want to see it," I said the second the door closed behind us.
Killian didn't respond.
I turned to him. "You heard me."
He stared at me, unreadable as always.
"Show. Me. The damn. Video."
He crossed the room in two strides, pulled a black secure tablet from his jacket, and set it on the table like a weapon.
Password protected. Of course.
He unlocked it with a fingerprint. Then hesitated.
I stepped closer. "Don't shield me, Grim. Just show me what they're going to turn into my next execution."
He clicked the play button.
And I watched myself come undone.
It was a short video — less than thirty seconds.
But it felt longer.
I was sitting on a bed I didn't recognize, hair messy, lips parted, laughing breathlessly into the camera. I wore one of my oversized cardigans, bare underneath. My necklace was crooked. There was something scrawled on my inner thigh in red marker. Something I couldn't read through the grain.
And my voice…
It was slurred.
Soft.
Not like me.
"…he said I could be his secret, isn't that sweet? I love secrets. They're the only things I still own…"
Static cut the clip before the sentence finished.
I stood frozen, ice climbing up my spine.
That wasn't me. Not fully.
That was… what? Sleep-deprived me? Drugged me? Intoxicated me?
No. No, I hadn't touched anything stronger than a flute of champagne in weeks.
I blinked, trying to find the memory in my brain like a lost file.
"I don't remember this," I whispered.
Killian said nothing.
"I don't know where this was taken. That's not my room. That's not my—" My voice cracked.
He watched me like I was a puzzle he already knew the answer to.
"I didn't…" My knees buckled. I caught the edge of the table.
And then he was beside me.
Not touching me — not yet — but near enough to feel the shift in his energy.
"You were drugged," he said quietly.
I looked up at him.
His voice was steady. Controlled. "That video was pulled from a protected locker at Aurelia High. Someone accessed it remotely, using an internal faculty code. They uploaded it to a secure file server that pinged six newsrooms and one tabloid wire."
I swallowed.
"Someone stored it. Waited. And leaked it now."
I stared at him. "And you're just telling me this now?"
"I didn't know until three minutes before we were pulled from the press room."
"And my father?"
"Also just found out."
Of course he had. This wasn't about saving me. It was about sealing the leak.
"Was it Jackson?" I asked, voice brittle.
Killian's jaw clenched, a tick in his cheek giving him away.
He didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
The video was only visible to three people now: me, Killian, and the president.
But that wouldn't last.
The minute it leaked to the public, I'd be a national scandal again — only worse. This time they wouldn't say I was desperate.
They'd say I was dangerous.
Unstable.
Unfit.
I pressed my fingers into my eyes until I saw stars.
"Destroy it," I said hoarsely. "Please."
Killian hesitated.
"Don't you dare say it's evidence," I snapped.
He stared at me. "I'm not going to say that."
"Then what?"
"I already deleted it."
I froze.
His voice didn't change. "Before we left the press wing. I burned every trace. Local and cloud."
I blinked. "That's… protocol?"
He didn't blink. "No."
My throat tightened.
"Why?" I whispered.
Killian met my eyes.
And for the first time since he'd arrived in my world, he didn't look like a soldier.
He looked like a man with a secret too sharp to name.
"Because you asked me to," he said.
Later that night, I didn't sleep.
Again.
But this time it wasn't because of fear.
It was fury.
And something worse than that — curiosity.
What kind of man deletes orders to protect a girl he barely knows?
What kind of bodyguard breaks protocol?
What kind of ghost steps into the fire?
It was past 1AM when I got out of bed and padded barefoot into the hallway.
He was there. Of course.
Sitting on the bench beside my door, elbows on his knees, watching nothing.
I didn't bother being subtle.
I walked past him.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Wearing nothing but my robe.
I didn't look at him.
But I made sure he looked at me.
The hallway mirror did the rest.
I knew he could see me.
Every step. Every inch. Every silent challenge stitched into my skin.
He didn't blink.
Not once.
But his hand curled slowly into a fist.
And my heart — traitorous, wild, giddy — twisted with something dark and thrilling.
Because I hadn't broken him.
But I had cracked him.
And that was my first strike.
I didn't stop at the mirror. I kept walking. Down the stairs. Toward the old library — the one no one used anymore, tucked beneath the East Wing.
I opened the heavy door and slipped inside.
It smelled like dust and secrets.
And it was quiet. Too quiet.
Until a voice whispered, "That was bold."
I turned.
Eva Moore stepped from the shadows, hoodie up, phone in hand, smirking like a cat who'd hacked the mouse.
"You always sneak into presidential mansions at night?" I asked.
"Only when I have something that could destroy your father."
I blinked.
She pulled out a USB stick and tossed it onto the table.
"Do you want to see who filmed that second video?"
I stared at her.
"What?"
She tapped her phone.
A new clip loaded.
This one — grainier. Security footage.
A girl.
Slipping into the school's AV lab after hours. Entering a code.
Alyssa.
I didn't breathe.
Didn't blink.
Didn't move.
"She broke in," Eva said. "Three days before Jackson's speech. She copied every file in your locker. Photos. Audio. Videos. Even private voice notes."
My mouth went dry.
"Why?"
Eva shrugged. "Jealousy. Revenge. Maybe she just likes to watch girls burn."
I pressed my palm to the edge of the desk. "She was my friend."
"She was never your friend."
I looked up.
"I can bury her," Eva said simply. "Publicly. Digitally. Permanently."
I didn't answer.
Because I knew I wanted that.
And I hated that I wanted it.
Footsteps echoed outside the library.
Heavy. Military precise.
Eva vanished into the shelves just as the door opened.
Killian stepped inside.
Saw me.
Paused.
"You're not supposed to be here," he said.
I lifted my chin. "Neither are you."
He walked toward me slowly. "What are you doing?"
I stared at him.
And then I lied.
"Reading."
He looked at the books. All untouched.
Then he stepped closer.
Too close.
I didn't back away.
His gaze dipped — just once — to my collarbone, to the curve of my neck. And then back to my eyes.
"Go back upstairs," he said.
"No."
He didn't move.
Neither did I.
"Fine," he said at last. "Then I will."
He stepped around me.
Paused at the door.
And without looking back, he said,
"Keep playing your little games, Miss Thorne. But remember — the closer you get to the fire, the more likely someone is to push you in."
Then he left.
And I stood there.
Breathless.
Burning.
The next morning, Alyssa uploads a public post claiming Phoebe is mentally unstable — and that she leaked the videos herself for attention. The media explodes. Jackson retweets it.
Now the nation doesn't just see Phoebe as a scandal.
They see her as a liar.