Chapter 13 The Threat
Public Performance
Ethan Blackwood had spent his entire career negotiating deals he didn't want.
Hostile acquisitions.
Political compromises.
Investor demands.
Market pressures.
The ability to tolerate unpleasant situations had become one of his greatest strengths.
Unfortunately, nothing in twenty years of business experience prepared him for pretending to date a woman while secretly being in love with someone else.
The arrangement began exactly one week after the charity gala.
Not because Ethan agreed.
Not officially.
The board simply continued applying pressure until resistance became increasingly difficult.
Every meeting somehow returned to the same subject.
Every investor conversation included subtle references.
Every market analyst seemed unusually interested in his personal life.
The timing felt suspicious.
Almost coordinated.
Ethan wouldn't have been surprised if it actually was.
The board never stopped pushing once they identified an objective.
Especially one they believed would increase shareholder confidence.
By Thursday morning, Richard Caldwell finally cornered him after a quarterly planning session.
"One luncheon."
Ethan continued gathering documents.
"No."
"One appearance."
"No."
Richard sighed heavily.
The sound carried weeks of frustration.
"You aren't helping."
"I'm not supposed to help."
The older man rubbed his forehead.
"The market likes certainty."
"The market needs a hobby."
Richard laughed despite himself.
Unfortunately, the humor disappeared quickly.
"This isn't going away."
The statement hung heavily in the air.
Because Ethan knew it was true.
The board wouldn't stop.
Not immediately.
Possibly not ever.
Eventually Richard delivered the argument he'd been saving.
"The company needs stability."
There it was again.
The favorite corporate phrase.
The universal justification for bad decisions.
Ethan hated how effective it could be.
Because the company really did matter.
Thousands of employees depended on it.
Countless families depended on it.
The responsibility wasn't imaginary.
Neither was the pressure.
Several days later, Ethan finally agreed to a compromise.
A public appearance.
One.
Nothing more.
At least that was the plan.
The first event took place at a Manhattan art exhibition sponsored by several major investors.
Sophia attended.
Ethan attended.
Photographers attended.
Naturally.
The entire thing felt absurd.
Sophia apparently shared that opinion.
The moment cameras drifted elsewhere, she lowered her voice.
"I hate this."
Relief washed through him.
"Good."
She laughed softly.
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
For the first time all evening, genuine understanding passed between them.
The realization surprised Ethan.
They barely knew each other.
Yet both had become unwilling participants in the same corporate strategy.
An uncomfortable bond.
But a bond nonetheless.
Sophia glanced toward the photographers.
Then back toward him.
"For what it's worth, I'm not pushing this."
"I know."
The answer came immediately.
Because he genuinely believed her.
The woman looked as trapped as he felt.
Perhaps more so.
That didn't improve the situation.
But it eliminated one potential source of resentment.
The evening ended without disaster.
Unfortunately, it also ended with photographs.
Hundreds of photographs.
By the following morning, several business publications had already published articles.
Most remained harmless.
Speculative.
Predictable.
Still annoying.
One headline read:
Blackwood and Caldwell Spark Interest at Charity Circuit Event.
Another suggested:
Power Couple in the Making?
Ethan immediately wanted to throw his phone into the Hudson River.
Instead, he forwarded several strongly worded emails to the public relations department.
An entirely inadequate substitute.
The real problem emerged during the following weeks.
Because one appearance became two.
Then three.
Then five.
Each event came with new excuses.
Investor dinners.
Fundraisers.
Industry conferences.
Networking functions.
Always temporary.
Always necessary.
Always just one more appearance.
Ethan hated every second.
Not because Sophia was unpleasant.
She wasn't.
In fact, he increasingly liked her.
As a person.
Nothing more.
They developed an odd friendship based almost entirely on mutual frustration.
Several times she openly mocked the articles appearing online.
Ethan appreciated that.
The situation remained ridiculous.
At least they could acknowledge it.
Unfortunately, public perception rarely cared about reality.
Photographs accumulated.
Speculation increased.
Commentators filled empty spaces with assumptions.
The narrative practically wrote itself.
Successful billionaire.
Beautiful investor's daughter.
Public appearances.
Shared events.
The media loved stories like that.
Simple stories.
Predictable stories.
Stories that sold advertisements.
Reality never stood much chance.
The headlines grew worse.
New York's Most Eligible Billionaire Off the Market?
Sources Predict Blackwood-Caldwell Engagement Within the Year.
Business Dynasty in the Making.
Each article felt increasingly absurd.
Yet investors loved them.
Stock analysts loved them.
The board practically celebrated them.
Which only made Ethan angrier.
Because every positive headline came with consequences.
Consequences nobody else seemed to notice.
Or care about.
One evening, Ethan returned to the penthouse after another investor function.
Exhaustion weighed heavily on him.
Not physical exhaustion.
Emotional exhaustion.
The constant performance had become draining.
Pretending.
Smiling.
Standing beside Sophia while strangers imagined futures neither wanted.
The elevator doors opened.
Silence greeted him.
The penthouse appeared unusually quiet.
Several lights remained on.
Most had already been dimmed for the evening.
The familiar calm normally comforted him.
Tonight it didn't.
Because the moment he stepped into the kitchen, he noticed something immediately.
Oliver looked different.
Subtle.
But different.
The smile arrived slightly slower.
The greeting sounded slightly quieter.
Most people would've missed it.
Ethan didn't.
"Long day?"
The question came naturally.
Oliver nodded.
"Something like that."
A simple answer.
Too simple.
The unease inside Ethan deepened.
For weeks, he'd been watching this happen.
Slowly.
Gradually.
Each new article seemed to chip away at something.
Each public appearance created additional distance.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Oliver never complained.
Never argued.
Never demanded explanations.
That almost made it worse.
Because Ethan could see the effect anyway.
The insecurity.
The uncertainty.
The hurt.
All carefully hidden.
All increasingly obvious.
Dinner passed pleasantly enough.
Conversation happened.
Work stories were exchanged.
The usual routine continued.
Yet something remained off.
A tension neither addressed directly.
The reason sat between them.
Unspoken.
Unavoidable.
Later that night, Ethan found Oliver alone in the kitchen.
The chef stood near the island reviewing supplier reports.
Or pretending to.
The papers hadn't moved in several minutes.
Ethan approached carefully.
"What are you thinking about?"
Oliver looked up.
The answer didn't arrive immediately.
When it finally did, it sounded painfully casual.
"Nothing."
A lie.
An obvious lie.
Ethan knew it.
Oliver knew it.
Neither acknowledged it.
The silence stretched.
Then Oliver surprised him.
Again.
"I saw the article."
There it was.
Finally.
The real problem.
Ethan's stomach tightened.
"Which one?"
A humorless laugh escaped.
"The engagement one."
Of course.
That one.
The headline had appeared that morning.
The most ridiculous yet.
Several anonymous sources apparently believed wedding bells were inevitable.
Complete nonsense.
Yet widespread nonsense.
Oliver looked away.
Toward the city lights beyond the windows.
"It was everywhere."
The quietness in his voice hurt.
More than Ethan expected.
Because beneath the words existed something deeper.
Fear.
The realization hit instantly.
For weeks, Ethan had focused on his own frustration.
His own anger.
His own resentment.
Meanwhile Oliver had been forced to watch from the sidelines.
Watching headlines invent a relationship.
Watching photographs create a narrative.
Watching the man he cared about publicly linked to someone else.
The understanding felt brutal.
"Ethan..."
The hesitation made everything worse.
"What if—"
He stopped.
Unable to finish.
The incomplete question hung heavily between them.
Neither needed clarification.
Ethan knew exactly what he was asking.
What if the board wins?
What if investors matter more?
What if this becomes real?
The thought filled him with immediate anger.
Not toward Oliver.
Toward the entire situation.
Because nobody should have to ask questions like that.
Especially not him.
Ethan stepped closer.
Carefully.
Deliberately.
"Look at me."
Oliver did.
Slowly.
Uncertainly.
The vulnerability in his eyes nearly destroyed him.
"Nothing about those articles is real."
The words emerged firmly.
Certain.
"I don't want Sophia."
The truth felt wonderfully simple.
"I never wanted Sophia."
Oliver remained silent.
Listening.
Needing to hear this.
Perhaps needing it more than Ethan realized.
"The only thing real in any of this is you."
The confession settled softly between them.
For a brief moment, the tension eased.
Not completely.
But enough.
Yet even as Ethan spoke those words, a troubling realization lingered beneath the surface.
Because the board wasn't finished.
The media wasn't finished.
The pressure wasn't finished.
In fact, it was only getting stronger.
And somewhere out there, people were already discussing an engagement that didn't exist.
An engagement that threatened everything.