16. The Tabloid Trap
THE TABLOID TRAP
Ethan
The hearing is in eight days. That's the number that lives in my head now. Eight days. Each morning, I wake up and the number is smaller, and Malcolm's voice is louder. Stay invisible. Stay boring.
A chance. Not a guarantee.
So, I do what I always do. I put distance between us.
I'm out of the penthouse before she wakes. I leave a note on the kitchen counter: Early meeting. Be back late.
At work, I keep my office door closed. When she brings me coffee, I nod without meeting her eyes. When she has questions about the schedule, I answer short. She lingers at the door for a second longer than she needs to. I can see the question she's not asking.
On Wednesday she knocks at 4 p.m. and tells me the Singapore call has been moved. I say “fine.” She stands there.
“Are you eating?” she says.
“I'm fine.”
“That's not what I asked.”
I look up. She's holding a sandwich on a plate. She puts it on the corner of my desk and walks out without waiting for a thank you.
I eat the sandwich. I hate myself for how much better it makes me feel.
She doesn't push. She can tell something's off. She's choosing to give me time.
By the end of the week, the silence between us has hardened. She stays in her wing at night. I stay in mine. We orbit each other like strangers sharing an elevator. The penthouse has never felt this large.
The plan is working. The distance is working.
I feel it. Every hour.
The first sign of trouble comes from Grant Hale.
I'm in a meeting when my phone vibrates. A text from Nia. Grant cornered the Ashford reps in the lobby. Looked cozy.
Grant has been circling me for years, looking for an opening. He runs a division that should have been folded two years ago, but he's savvy enough to keep himself relevant. He's also the kind of man who turns information into leverage. Who cultivates sources in places they shouldn't be.
Two hours later, I find out what Grant was doing.
Margaret Chen from Ashford shows up at my office. Polite. Professional. But there's a guardedness in her expression that puts me on edge.
“Ethan,” she says. “Any changes we should be aware of?”
“Changes?”
“Personal circumstances.” She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. “Investor sentiment can be sensitive to leadership stability. We like to stay ahead of the curve.”
My blood goes cold. “I'm not sure what you're referring to.”
“Of course not. You know how rumors travel.”
She leaves. I don't move for a long moment.
Then I call Vivian Park.
Vivian arrives twenty minutes later. Monochrome suit, sculptural jewelry, tablet clutched like a weapon.
“The Ashford meeting,” she says, without preamble. “Margaret Chen.”
“You heard.”
“I hear everything.” She sits. “There's been chatter. Nothing concrete. But enough that people are asking questions.”
“What kind of chatter?”
“A woman seen entering and leaving your building at unusual hours. Late nights at the office. Sudden schedule changes.” She pauses. “And your executive assistant.”
I keep my face neutral. My hands are flat on the desk. I don't move them.
“Who's talking?”
“Grant Hale has been making friends with the wrong people. I don't have proof yet, but my instincts say he's the source.” She tilts her head. “There's also chatter about Ashford pulling back if leadership looks unstable. Margaret's visit was a warning shot.”
“And the hearing is in seven days.”
“I know.” Her voice is flat. “Ethan. I need you to tell me what I'm managing here.”
I look at her.
If I tell Vivian the truth, she becomes someone who can do her job. If I don't, she's defending an image while the real story drives a truck through the front door.
But Vivian is a corporate strategist. The kind who treats a CEO's personal life as an asset to be deployed.
I have watched her do it. I have signed off on press releases that softened public images and protected investor confidence.
I never asked whether the person being managed had consented to it.
“There is no story,” I say.
She watches me. She knows I'm lying. I can see the calculation happening behind her eyes. How much to press. How much to let go.
“Then I'm going to do my job with the information I have.” She leans forward.
“There's a woman the press is connecting to you. Your reputation is the variable everyone is watching for the hearing. And we have one news cycle before a gossip site runs a photo.” She stands.
“I'll draft a statement. Defensive. Generic. No one named. You sign off before it goes anywhere.”
“Vivian.”
She stops at the door.
“I am asking you to make a decision before someone else makes it for you.”
She leaves.
That night, I find Lani in the kitchen making ginger tea. The nausea is better but not gone.
“We need to pull back,” I say.
She doesn't turn around. “Pull back from what?”
“The office. The building. How often we're seen together.”
Now she turns. The warmth is gone.
“Pull back.” She sets down the mug. “You don't look at me. You leave before I wake up. We haven't had a real conversation in a week. And your solution is more distance?”
“There's chatter. The Ashford rep asked about personal circumstances. Vivian thinks Grant is feeding the gossip sites.”
“I know. I've been counting too.”
I look at her.
“Then you understand.”
“I understand the math.” She crosses her arms. “What I don't understand is why protecting us means pretending I don't exist. We could have talked about this. Made a plan together. Instead, you disappeared. And I'm finding out now, in our kitchen, that tabloids are circling.”
I open my mouth. Close it.
She's right and I know it, and I did it anyway because that's what I do. I close doors. I control the variables. I decide what's best and I execute. It's what makes me good at my job. It's what makes me terrible at this.
“You're right,” I say.
She watches me.
“Then don't do that anymore. Whatever happens next, we figure it out together. That's the rule.”
“That's the rule,” I agree.
She picks up her mug. Walks past me. Stops at the doorway.
“And Ethan. I love your daughter. I'm not going to be the thing that hurts her. Trust that before you start making decisions on my behalf.”
She walks down the hall. The door to her wing clicks shut.
I stand in the kitchen alone. Lily's drawing is on the counter, pinned under a magnet. Four figures. Her world.
I made a promise to protect that. I'm keeping it the wrong way.
The call comes two days later.
I'm at my desk when my phone buzzes. Then again. Then Vivian's name lights up.
“Check your email,” she says. “I'm forwarding the link now.”
I open my laptop. A gossip site. A headline.
MERCER'S SECRET BABY MAMA? CEO'S MYSTERIOUS COMPANION SPOTTED
There's a photo. Lani, walking into my building. Two days ago. Her face is clear.
The article is short on facts, and long on speculation. Mystery woman. Late night visits. Sources close to the CEO.
“This went live twenty minutes ago,” Vivian says. “It's being picked up. We have six hours before it's everywhere.”
I stare at the photo.
The hearing is in five days. A judge is going to see this photo and decide whether I deserve to keep my daughter.
Somewhere in this building, Lani has no idea what's coming.