Chapter 12 - The Leak
By seven o'clock the next morning, the scandal had detonated across the global financial and tabloid press.
I woke up in the massive east-wing bed to the soft buzz of the master tablet sitting on the nightstand. When I unlocked the screen, my face was staring back at me from the front page of the *New York Post*, the *Daily Mail*, and *Bloomberg*.
*WHO IS AVA COLLINS? THE CINDERELLA BRIDE OF WALL STREET.*
*THORNE DROPS $20M SLAP ON LANGFORD DYNASTY.*
*FROM BARISTA TO BILLIONAIRE’S BED: THE EVENT RUNNER WHO CONQUERED GABRIEL THORNE.*
Beneath the sensational headlines, however, a darker narrative had already begun to churn in the comment sections and social media channels.
A viral thread on Twitter, posted from an anonymous burner account linked to a Langford PR agency, was rapidly gaining traction. It featured grainy photos of me from my days working double shifts at the medical billing office, accompanied by fabricated accusations:
*Sources close to the Thorne family claim Collins is a professional grifter who targeted Damian Cross for his tuition money, drained his accounts, and then used insider knowledge from Bellmere Events to trap Gabriel Thorne into a contract marriage before his birthday deadline.*
They were trying to flip the script. Victoria wasn't going down quietly; she was painting me as a calculating gold-digger who had ruined Damian’s life.
My door swung open. Gabriel walked in, already dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit, holding two mugs of black coffee. He looked completely unbothered, as if an international media firestorm was nothing more than an unseasonal breeze.
"You've seen it," he said, handing me a mug.
"They’re calling me a thief," I said, my fingers gripping the warm ceramic. "They’re claiming I stole Damian’s money. The press is already camped outside St. Jude Pavilion, Gabriel! They’re harassing the nurses at my grandmother’s hospice!"
A dark, dangerous fury flared behind Gabriel’s eyes, cold and bottomless.
"No one touches your grandmother, Ava," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed beside me. "I dispatched four private security teams to St. Jude at four this morning. The entire floor is locked down. Not even a photographer with a telephoto lens can get within two hundred yards."
"That doesn't stop the lies," I said, my chest heaving with frustration. "They’re trying to turn me into a monster to save Damian’s reputation."
"Damian doesn't have a reputation anymore," Gabriel replied smoothly, taking a slow sip of his coffee. "His firm placed him on administrative leave thirty minutes ago. But Victoria’s father is using his media assets to divert attention away from their collapsing stock."
He set his mug down and reached out, his warm fingers brushing a stray lock of hair away from my forehead. The intimacy of the gesture caught me off guard, sending a sudden flutter through my ribcage.
"How would you like to answer them, Ava?" he asked softly.
I looked at him, surprised. "You’re asking me?"
"You signed a contract to be my equal, not my pawn," Gabriel said, his voice deadly serious. "If you want to hide, I will buy the media outlets and bury the story by noon. But if you want blood... I will give you a podium."
I looked at the lies on the screen. I thought of the nights I had eaten instant noodles so Damian could have a steak dinner before his corporate interviews.
"Call a press conference," I said, my voice hardening into steel. "At Thorne Tower. At noon."
Gabriel’s lips curved into that rare, lethal smile.
May you like
"Good girl," he murmured.
***