Elanor woke to the sound of his phone vibrating nonstop.
Not ringing vibrating, a constant buzz that felt like an earthquake under his pillow.
He sat up immediately, eyes adjusting to the pale light filtering through his curtains.
Notification after notification flooded his lock screen:
Vance Family Lawyers requesting urgent meeting.
Moreau Group Public Relations: "Please confirm statement approval."
Global Finance News tagging him in headlines.
Private messages from numbers he never gave out.
Dozens of mentions.
Hundreds of articles.
He didn't have to click any of them to know.
The announcement had detonated.
He ran a hand through his hair, slow but steady, grounding himself.
The room felt colder than usual, or maybe that was just the weight settling in his chest.
He had expected noise.
He hadn't expected this.
His phone buzzed again this time with a single name glowing on the screen.
Isabella Moreau.
He answered instantly.
She didn't waste time.
"Good morning, fiancé," she said, voice too calm, too composed, too Isabella.
"How early did you wake?" he asked.
"Three."
"Three?"
"I wanted to be awake before the world was."
Of course she did.
"What's the situation?" he asked.
"You'll see soon," she replied.
A pause.
"Get ready. I'm sending a car."
"For what?"
"For surviving the day."
The call ended.
The Moreau offices were already swarming with movement by the time Elanor arrived.
Security doubled.
Directors gathered.
Assistants sprinted.
Everyone was dressed like they were heading into a war room rather than a corporate building.
Someone was crying near the elevators
he didn't stop to find out why.
He walked in with hands in his coat pockets, posture controlled, steps measured.
People stared.
Not subtly.
Not discreetly.
They stared the way one might look at a man who had accidentally stepped onto a stage built for gods and monsters.
Elanor ignored them all.
The private elevator opened.
At the top floor, Isabella stood waiting.
She wasn't alone.
Screens lined the wall behind her, each showing a different news network, a different headline, a different angle of the same story.
ISABELLA MOREAU SHOCKS LONDON WITH SUDDEN ENGAGEMENT.
WHY DID SHE CHOOSE ELANOR VANCE?
A STRATEGIC MARRIAGE OR SOMETHING MORE?
THE VANCES REFUSE TO COMMENT.
BUSINESS DYNASTIES COLLIDE.
Isabella didn't turn.
She watched the screens with a stillness carved from stone.
Only when he approached did she speak.
"Well," she murmured, "the world believes us."
He stood beside her.
"That was the point."
Her lip twitched the closest thing she had to a smirk when she wasn't in the mood for real amusement.
"They're calling it the merger of the decade," she said. "Some say it's a political move. Some think it's a desperate grasp for influence. A few think it's a love story."
"Those are the delusional ones."
"Yes," she agreed. "And they're my favorite."
He huffed a short breath.
Almost a laugh.
Almost.
Isabella finally turned to him.
"You slept?"
"A little."
"You look like it."
"So do you."
"I didn't ask."
"You never do."
A sharp breath escaped her annoyance, or a reluctant surrender to the fact that Elanor Vance was not a man who bent easily.
"Come," she said at last. "We have a press response to finalize."
He followed her to the conference table.
Stacks of documents awaited them.
Screens displayed statistics.
PR managers stood at attention, stiff as soldiers.
But Isabella dismissed them all with a single flick of her hand.
"Leave us."
They obeyed instantly.
Only when the glass doors clicked shut did she sit, motioning for him to do the same.
"Before we begin," she said, tapping the file in front of her, "you need to read this."
Elanor opened it.
His jaw tightened.
A list.
A long list.
Every reaction from the Vance family, compiled in real time by Moreau intelligence.
Alistair Vance is furious.
He called your brother at dawn.
He demanded an emergency board meeting.
He believes Isabella is manipulating you.
He intends to interfere.
Elanor closed the file slowly.
"He won't win," he said.
Isabella leaned forward, eyes sharp.
"No," she replied. "He won't. Because I won't let him."
There it was again the Moreau promise.
Cold.
Precise.
Unbreakable once spoken.
But underneath it, buried deep, something else flickered.
Something almost protective.
Elanor's chest tightened—not with warmth, but with recognition.
They were not allies by fate.
They were allies by choice.
And that made them far more dangerous.
She opened another folder.
"This is the part that matters," she said. "The public believes us. The media is obsessed. But now we need to craft our first official statement."
He nodded.
"What's the angle?"
Isabella slid the page toward him.
Simple.
Clean.
Cold.
"We chose each other out of mutual respect."
He looked up.
"You're serious."
"Very."
"It's blunt."
"Good."
"It's emotionless."
"Even better."
He studied her for a long moment.
"People will ask why there's no romantic statement."
"Let them ask," she murmured. "Curiosity feeds the fire."
"And you're comfortable with that?"
Her eyes didn't waver.
"Elanor," she said softly, "I have spent my whole life being watched. Scrutinized. Picked apart."
A pause.
"But never believed. Never understood. This… cold honesty it's the first thing that might actually protect us."
Silence settled between them.
Not heavy.
Not hostile.
Just real.
He nodded.
"Then we go with your statement."
She took a steady breath.
"Good. Then comes the next issue."
She slid her tablet to him.
Messages.
Hundreds of them.
From investors.
Business partners.
Political figures.
Foreign conglomerates.
Rivals.
Friends.
Enemies.
And at the very bottom
A single message glowing like a quiet threat:
ALISTAIR VANCE "We need to talk."
Isabella's eyes flicked to his.
"He's going to make a move."
"I know."
"Are you prepared?"
Elanor's jaw flexed.
"Yes."
Isabella studied him carefully as if looking for any crack, any hesitation, any fear.
She found none.
"Then," she said, standing, "we deal with the next avalanche."
"What avalanche?"
She motioned toward the glass doors.
"The reporters."
Elanor frowned.
"I thought we weren't doing a press conference."
"We're not."
"Then why are they.."
She stepped aside so he could see through the one-way glass.
The lobby below was a storm cameras flashing, journalists shouting, microphones thrust into the air, security struggling to contain the chaos.
All for one reason:
Elanor Vance.
Isabella Moreau.
The engagement that shook London.
He exhaled slowly.
"They're not going to stop," he said.
"Of course not."
"And we're not speaking to them?"
"Not yet."
"Then what do we do?"
Isabella stepped closer.
Close enough that her perfume subtle, clean, sharp brushed against the edge of his awareness.
"We walk past them," she said.
"Together."
"Silent."
"United."
"Unshakeable."
"That'll drive them insane."
"That's the point."
He met her gaze.
"Isabella."
"Yes?"
"You planned all of this."
"Obviously."
"You enjoy this."
"Immensely."
He almost smiled.
Almost.
"Then let's show them what they want to see," he said.
She held out her arm.
"Elanor Vance," she murmured, "shall we?"
He took it.
And together
step for step, breath for breath,
two storms dressed in elegance
they walked toward the waiting world.
Not in love.
Not pretending to be.
Not yet.
But powerful.
Aligned.
Inevitable.
The kind of pair London didn't know whether to fear or worship.
And as they descended toward the blinding lights and erupting chaos, Isabella whispered, just loud enough for him to hear:
"Let the world burn with curiosity."
Elanor didn't look at her.
But he allowed himself one truth
He didn't mind the fire.