Daphne stood under the hot spray of the shower. She scrubbed her skin with a loofah until it turned pink, trying to wash away the feeling of the gala, the alleyway, and the confusion of the morning.
The steam filled the shower stall, thick and white.
It triggered a memory.
Flashback. Eight years ago.
The library at St. Jude's Prep. It was raining then, too.
Young Daphne sat hidden behind a stack of encyclopedias, sobbing. She was sixteen. She had just been cut from the terrifyingly competitive summer intensive at the Royal Ballet.
Footsteps approached.
She curled into a tighter ball, expecting a teacher to scold her.
"You're getting snot on the Britannica," a voice drawled.
She looked up. It was Charlton. He was wearing his blazer carelessly, tie askew.
He didn't ask why she was crying. He didn't offer empty platitudes.
He just handed her a pristine, monogrammed handkerchief.
"Dry your eyes, Flynn. Red isn't your color."
He sat down next to her on the floor, opening a comic book, acting like sitting on the dusty library floor was the most natural thing for a Bernard heir to do.
A few minutes later, Campbell walked by the aisle. He saw Daphne crying.
He paused. He looked at his watch. Then he saw the headmaster talking to a donor near the entrance.
Campbell turned and walked toward the donor, flashing his winning smile, leaving Daphne in the dust.
End Flashback.
Daphne snapped back to the present. She turned off the tap.
She realized with a jolt that Campbell had always been transactional. Even back then. She had just been too blind to see it.
She dried off and put on Charlton's shirt. It was huge on her, the hem hitting her mid-thigh. She rolled up the sleeves.
She lifted her arm to smell the collar. It smelled like sandalwood and safety.
She hated that she liked it.
She walked out into the living area.
Charlton was standing by the kitchen island, talking on his phone. He was speaking rapid-fire French.
"Non, c'est inacceptable. Bloquez tout," he commanded.
He hung up as she entered.
"Lawyers," he explained briefly.
He didn't smile. He slid an iPad across the marble counter toward her.
"Campbell gave an exclusive to 'The Daily Look' this morning. It went live ten minutes ago."
Daphne felt her stomach drop. She walked over and looked at the screen.
The headline screamed in bold black letters:
BROCK HEIR CHOOSING DUTY OVER RECKLESS ROMANCE
She read the first paragraph.
Sources close to the couple say that Campbell Brock ended the engagement due to Flynn's increasing emotional volatility and erratic behavior. Rumors of infidelity on her part have plagued the couple for months...
"Infidelity?" Daphne gasped. "I never looked at another man!"
"Read the next line," Charlton said.
Flynn was seen leaving the gala with notorious playboy Charlton Bernard, confirming suspicions of a long-standing affair.
"He's spinning the narrative," Charlton said, his voice hard. "He's using last night against you. He's making you the villain so he looks like the noble victim who had to choose the 'good girl' Kandice."
"How did he know?" Daphne asked. "About us leaving together?"
"He didn't," Charlton said. "He guessed. And we just gave him the proof he needed."
Daphne sank onto a barstool. She felt weak.
"My career," she whispered. "ABT has a morality clause. They won't keep a scandal-ridden principal dancer who is cheating on America's Golden Boy."
"They won't," Charlton agreed brutally. "You're already trending as a 'Gold Digger' and a 'Cheat'."
Daphne felt the walls closing in again. The panic from the night before returned, sharper this time.
"I have nothing," she said. "No family. No fiancé. No job. I'm going to be cancelled."
Charlton walked around the island. He stood directly in front of her.
He placed both hands on the counter, one on either side of her, boxing her in.
"You have me," he said.
He held her gaze. His eyes were intense, demanding she believe him.
"But I'm the 'reckless playboy', remember?" Daphne laughed bitterly. "Being with me just confirms the rumor. It proves Campbell right."
"So I'm doomed," she concluded, her shoulders slumping in defeat.
"Not if we change the narrative," Charlton said, a glint appearing in his eye. A gambler's glint.
He reached into a drawer and pulled out a thick document bound in blue paper.
He dropped it on the counter next to the iPad.
"Have you ever heard of the Bernard Family Trust Marriage Clause?"
