30. Elliot
ELLIOT
It didn’t take long for Northwell to become a war room.
But I wasn't allowed to call it that; officially, it was a communications strategy meeting. Unofficially, everyone looked like the building was on fire, and I was standing in the center holding a match. And I wanted to scream at everyone that it wasn’t anyone's business, but that probably would have made things worse.
Screens and boards filled the executive boardroom walls.
News sites. Social feeds. Market updates.
Mentions of Northwell, Vale, Montgomery, Harper, scandal, affair, legacy.
Her name was everywhere, and because of me, mine was too.
When I told Timothy that I couldn't give a flying fuck what people said about me, that I was concerned for Harper, he scrunched up his glasses-wearing nose and told me I was his job, not her.
A communications director they had brought in to help Timothy, whom I barely tolerated, stood at the front of the room clicking through slides like this was a product recall instead of a woman’s life being ripped apart for entertainment.
“Our recommendation is distance,” she said.
I stared at the screen. A photo of Harper and me filled it, my hand at her back, with her face tipped slightly toward mine.
I remembered that night, how she smelled, how it felt to have that smile aimed at me, and thinking she looked like she belonged beside me.
I was wrong. She had belonged anywhere she wanted.
I was the one who did not deserve the space.
“We issue a neutral statement,” the communications director continued. “Mr. Vale wishes Miss Montgomery and her family well. We respect their privacy. No further comment.”
“No,” I said.
The room went quiet.
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“No.”
Julian, seated at the other end of the table, looked at me carefully, and I didn’t need to look around to gauge the various other expressions I'd see on familiar faces.
A board member cleared his throat. “Elliot, this is not emotional. This is containment.”
Containment.
The word made my jaw flex. I was so tired of that word, so fucking tired of catchwords that meant so much more than what one clean, crisp word showed. And if one more asshole in this room tells me we need to; Contain the scandal, the press, the woman, contain the damage.
My entire life had been one long exercise in containment, and all it had ever done was teach me how to repress feeling human.
“She is not a liability,” I said.
He tried to defend his position, saying, “No one said she was.”
“You implied it.”
I tried to tamp down the growl, but I don’t think I did. Because I heard a chuckle that surprisingly may have come from Rowan as the board member’s mouth tightened, and the communications director shifted anxiously.
“We are protecting Northwell.”
“At what cost?” I asked, before adding, “You want to protect Northwell by letting people tear apart a woman who has done nothing wrong.”
“We cannot control what the media does.” The public relations director chirped.
Isn’t that your fucking job?
I laughed once, and it was a cold and ugly sound.
“Interesting. Because the only thing anyone in this room seems interested in controlling is me.”
Another board member spoke. “This situation predates you. It predates Northwell. The Montgomery family has a complicated history with the press, and it would be unwise for us to insert ourselves into that narrative.”
That narrative. As if Sophie Montgomery’s death was a branding problem. As if a tragic event and how a family, a father tried to survive it.
A younger PR consultant near the end of the table glanced down at his notes and said, “Frankly, if Miss Montgomery wanted to maintain privacy, attending events with the public-facing CEO of Northwell was a risk she should have been smart enough to avoid.”
The room froze. Slowly, I looked at him. “Say that again.” And this time I didn’t hide the growl.
He went pale. “I only meant…”
“No,” I stood. “Say it again.”
He did not. Smart man. Another person tried. “Elliot, no one is blaming her.”
“You just did.”
“We’re saying we have options. We can clarify that the relationship was informal. That she pursued access to Northwell through you. That you were unaware of her identity and ended contact when...”
“Meeting’s over.” I interrupted.
The board member frowned. “You don’t have the authority to end…”
“I founded this company.”
“So did we,” Rowan added.
I turned toward him, and he held my gaze, then nodded once.
I looked back at the room and repeated, “Meeting’s over.”
No one moved at first, but then Julian stood, and Caleb followed. Rowan stayed seated, but that was Rowan. He could make stillness more threatening than movement.
The communications director closed her laptop carefully before saying, “We need a statement.”
“You’ll get one.”
“Approved through legal?” She retorted. Because apparently she didn't realize that this wasn’t her company.
“No.”
Her eyes widened. “Mr. Vale…”
“I said you’ll get one.”
Then I walked out. For once, no one stopped me.
The lobby was chaotic. Assistants moved too quickly, and security was on high alert. Everyone knew something was happening, but nobody knew what to do with a version of me that had stopped pretending this was only business. I pulled out my phone and saw another alert.
Harper Montgomery arrives at Foundation Offices amid a growing media storm.
A photo loaded beneath it. Harper, stepping out of an SUV. She had sunglasses shielding her beautiful eyes, and a coat wrapped tightly around her. She was being surrounded by security, but behind her were too many fucking cameras.
My stomach dropped. I was moving before I decided.
It took too long for us to get there, and I felt my anxiety climbing as every minute ticked by.
By the time the car pulled up outside the Montgomery Foundation offices, the crowd had doubled.
Reporters filled the sidewalk behind security barricades.
Cameras lifted. Voices shouted over one another.
The entire scene had a manic, hungry quality that made the back of my neck prickle.
Then I saw her.
Harper stood near the entrance, one hand on her father’s arm, security surrounding them.
She was composed, but I knew her. Or at least, I knew enough to see what I had missed before.
The tightness around her mouth. The way her fingers pressed into Alexander’s sleeve.
The way her eyes stayed fixed ahead, like if she looked too far left or right, the entire world might tilt.
Someone shouted, “Harper! Did Elliot Vale know who you were?”
Another yelled, “Was the relationship real?”
“Did your father approve of him?”
“Miss Montgomery, is history repeating itself?”
I saw her flinch. Barely. Not enough for the cameras, but enough for me.
It felt like my stomach dropped.
A reporter pushed louder. “Was the affair scandal the reason Alexander hid you?”
The mob of reporters was pushing in closer.
Alexander turned, and security tightened around them.
But Harper stopped walking just for a second, but I saw it happen.
The brief pause, her breath catching, the girl under the woman.
And finally, finally, I understood what choosing someone looked like.
It was not a contract or a strategic arrangement.
It was not saying the right thing when it was convenient.
It was stepping into the line of fire when every smart person in your life told you to stay back.
I got out of the car. One reporter noticed me. Then another.
“Mr. Vale!”
“Elliot!”
“Mr. Vale, did you know Harper Montgomery’s identity?”
Half the crowd turned. I stepped forward. Security moved toward me, but Alexander saw me.
His eyes narrowed. For one second, neither of us moved. Then he looked from me to the cameras, to Harper, and then back to me. He understood before I said a word. His expression did not soften, but he gave the smallest nod.
I walked directly toward the press line.
“Mr. Vale, did you target Harper Montgomery?”
“Were you aware of the fortune?”
“Was this a PR relationship?”
“Did she leave you?”
“Did you leave her?”
“Did Alexander Montgomery threaten Northwell?”
“Enough.” I didn’t yell; I didn’t need to. Cameras shifted, and microphones lifted in my direction. Behind me, I could feel Harper still standing there. But I did not look back. If I looked at her, I might lose the nerve to do what needed to be done.
“You want a statement?” I said.
The crowd quieted by degrees.
“Fine.”
A camera flash went off, then another, but I kept my eyes forward.
“Harper and I were in a real relationship.” A ripple moved through the reporters as I continued, “She did not pursue me. She did not use me. She did not gain access to Northwell through me.” I swallowed.
“I pursued her.” My voice remained steady.
“I wanted her.” The admission hit differently.
Because it wasn’t planned or polished. It was true.
I wanted Harper with every fiber in my body; I just didn’t understand the magnitude of why.
“And I hurt her.” I heard a few reporters shout, but I kept going.
“That is the extent of what any of you are entitled to know about our relationship.”
A woman near the front called out, “So she ended things because of your reputation?”
“No,” I said. The word came out sharp, but I continued. “She ended things because of my choices.”
Silence, beautiful, damning silence.
“And I will not let anyone in this crowd or any publication twist that into something ugly about her.”
A man pushed forward. “Did you know she was Alexander Montgomery’s daughter?”
“No.”
“Would that have mattered?”
The question hit. I could have said no. The simple answer. The charming one. The one that made me look noble. Instead, I said, “It shouldn’t have.”
A few people murmured. I continued before they could turn it into something else.
“Harper Montgomery owes none of you her pain. Her mother owes none of you her death. Her brother owes none of you his memory. And Alexander Montgomery owes none of you access to his grief.” The words came from somewhere raw.
Somewhere I had avoided for most of my life.
“If you want to criticize someone, criticize me. If you want a villain, use my name. If you want to speculate, speculate about how bad a man can fuck up before he realizes what he lost.” Behind the camera, someone gasped.
I didn't care. “But leave Harper and her family out of it.”
For half a second, no one spoke. Then a reporter near the middle raised his voice.
“Isn’t it fair to ask if this is history repeating itself? Sophie Montgomery was also at the center of an affair scandal before the accident.”
I turned slowly toward him. “Leave Sophie Montgomery out of this.”
The reporter flushed, but pushed on. “There were allegations…”
“Were there facts?” I asked.
He blinked. “What?”
“You said allegations. Were there facts?”
The reporter hesitated. “Well, sources at the time…”
“Sources?” My voice dropped. “Did anyone have proof?”
He looked annoyed now. “The story was widely reported.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “No confirmed proof was ever released publicly, no.”
The words slid under my skin, a thread I felt I needed to pull at…
No confirmed proof. Widely reported. Sources. People believed.
The exact machinery that had destroyed Harper’s life had been built on lies.
My mind moved fast. Alexander’s father showing up.
Alexander’s reaction. Rowan’s warnings. Carlisle saying anyone who knew Alexander and Sophie knew it was false.
A scandal that benefited someone. A son pulled back toward a family he had left. My stomach tightened. Who benefited?
The reporter started to ask another question, but I stepped back.
“We’re done.”
“Mr. Vale…”
“No. You wanted a statement. You have one.”
I turned away. This time, I looked at Harper.
She was already sliding into her SUV. Alexander stood beside her.
Her face was unreadable, but her eyes were on me.
The SUV door closed, and the car pulled away.
I watched until it disappeared around the corner.
Then I got into my car and called Rowan.
He answered on the second ring. “What did you do?”
“Depends on who you ask.”
A pause, then he let out a ragged sigh and said, “Elliot.”
“I need everything on the Montgomery scandal.”
Silence for a moment, and then, “Why?”
“Because someone started it.” I replied.
“Obviously.”
“No,” I said, staring out the window as the city blurred past. “I mean someone started it on purpose, someone close, someone who would benefit from Sophie leaving Alexander.” Rowan was quiet, so I continued, “Every article, lawsuit, settlement, reporter involved, and every anonymous source. Everything on the woman who claimed to be involved with Alexander Montgomery.”
“You realize what you’re asking?” he asked.
And it would be a real big fucking deal if what I thought turned out to be true.
“Yes.”
“And you realize Alexander Montgomery has probably buried half of it?”
“Then dig carefully.”
Rowan exhaled. “You’re playing with something that could destroy you.”
“I know.”
“No,” he said. “I don’t think you do.”
I closed my eyes. All I could see was Harper flinching when that reporter said history was repeating itself.
“I think somebody lied. I think it was a targeted attack,” I said quietly.
“And if you're right?”
I opened my eyes. “Then Harper deserves the truth.”
Rowan was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “I’ll look.”
The line disconnected. I lowered the phone and stared out the window. My driver pulled away from the curb, but my attention stayed behind us. With the woman I had hurt.
My phone started buzzing before we reached the next light. Julian. Caleb. Three board members. Northwell legal. The communications director. Then, a stock alert. Northwell Holdings dipped, then dipped again. I watched the numbers fall.
For a second, old instinct twitched.
Contain. Control. Protect.
Then I thought of Harper on that sidewalk, with her fingers gripping her father’s arm, her face holding steady while strangers clawed at wounds they had no right to touch, and I turned the phone face down.
Let the numbers fall. Let the board panic.
Let investors whisper. Let the whole fucking world decide what kind of man I was.
For once, they might even be right. But Harper was safe in her car, away from the cameras.
And for the first time in my life, I did not care what protecting someone else cost me.