The summons came not through Marcus, but directly. Her suite's intercom chimed, and Lionel's voice, colder and flatter than she had ever heard it, spoke only two words: "My study. Now."
He was standing behind his desk when she entered, the fireplace dark. The air was Arctic. On the large monitor of his computer, the Nocturne Gossip article was displayed. He didn't look at her; his gaze was fixed on the screen, his profile a carved mask of icy fury.
"Explain this," he said, the words clipped.
"It's my stepmother," Elena said, her voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor inside. "Veronica. She's angry I left. Angrier that I haven't… produced benefits for her. This is her revenge."
He finally turned his head. His eyes were the colour of a winter storm, but there was no gold, only a chilling, absolute calm that was more frightening than any outburst. "She had photographs. Details of your debt. Your living situation. This was a coordinated attack."
"She has a 'friend' at that tabloid. She must have been planning it since the gala, when she realized she wasn't getting an invitation." Elena wrapped her arms around herself. "I'm sorry. I didn't think she'd…"
"You didn't think," he interrupted, his voice a soft, dangerous blade. "Your family is a liability, Elena. A weeping wound of envy and spite. I do not tolerate liabilities."
Before she could respond, he turned to his computer. His fingers flew across the keyboard with inhuman speed. He picked up a secure phone and issued a series of terse, incomprehensible commands in a low voice. He wasn't asking. He was deploying assets.
Elena watched, a spectator to her own crisis. Within minutes, he turned the monitor towards her. "Watch."
The Nocturne Gossip website refreshed. The headline article was gone. In its place was a bland piece about a city council vote. A search for her name or Lionel's on the site returned zero results. It was as if the article had never existed.
"The article has been removed from the source, and all cached versions are being purged from search engines and archives," he stated, as if commenting on the weather. "The editor of the publication is currently receiving a visit from my legal team. A full retraction and apology will be posted within the hour, citing 'unverified sources and a failure of editorial standards.' The reporter who wrote it is being terminated. The photographer's credentials are being revoked."
Elena stared, stunned by the sheer, ruthless speed of it. It was like watching a surgeon perform a precision strike.
His phone buzzed. He glanced at it. "Veronica Hart's line of credit at Bergamot's Boutique has been permanently closed. Her preferred florist, caterer, and cosmetic surgeon have been informed that future business with her is not advisable. The 'friend' at the tabloid has been identified and her own employer, a mid-level PR firm, is being audited for tax irregularities as we speak."
The clinical dismantling of Veronica's world was breathtaking. This wasn't just about removing the article; it was about scorched-earth retaliation. He was cutting off her stepmother's oxygen—her social currency, her petty luxuries, her connections—with a few quiet words.
"You didn't have to do that," Elena whispered, horror cutting through her shock. "The article, yes, but… destroying her credit? Getting people fired? That's too much."
Lionel's head snapped up. The icy calm cracked, revealing the ferocity beneath. "Too much?" He rounded the desk, stopping a foot away from her. The cold radiating from him was palpable. "She sought to harm you. To manipulate public perception to cause you distress and damage my reputation. In my world, Elena, that is not a petty nuisance. It is an act of aggression. And aggression is met with decisive, overwhelming force."
"She's a bitter, small woman with a credit card! She's not a threat to you!"
"She is a threat to what is mine," he growled, the word exploding in the quiet room. "She hurt you. Therefore, she threatened my property. I protect what is mine. I do not negotiate with parasites; I eradicate them. This was not destruction. This was a measured, precise response. A lesson. One she will not forget."
The word property landed like a physical blow, stealing the breath from her lungs. It was worse than 'investment.' It was reduction to an object, a belonging. All the fragile connection from the music room, the sense of being seen as a complicated person, shattered. In the face of an external threat, he had categorised her with brutal simplicity.
Tears of hurt and fury blurred her vision. "I am not your property."
"For the duration of our contract," he said, his voice dropping back to that terrifying calm, "in every way that matters to the outside world, and in every way necessary for your safety and the integrity of our agreement, you are. This incident proves it. Your old life, your old attachments, are vulnerabilities. They are doors through which poison can enter. I have just closed one of those doors. Permanently."
He looked at her, at the tears she was fiercely trying to will away, and something shifted in his expression. The fury receded, leaving behind a sort of grim resolve. "The retraction will be live soon. The story will die. You will not speak of it again. And you will not contact your stepfamily. Is that clear?"
It was an order. The first rule, obedience, applied here too.
Elena nodded stiffly, unable to speak around the lump in her throat. The sting of 'property' was a wound that throbbed deeper than any fear of his power.
"Good," he said. He turned back to his desk, the dismissal absolute. "You may go."
She fled the study, the leather collar around her throat feeling tighter than ever. He had protected her, with a speed and efficiency that was awe-inspiring. But he had done it not to shield her, but to defend his possession. The cage was still gilded, but the bars, she now understood, were not just around her—they were around anyone who dared touch what he considered his. And she was inside, labelled, and filed away under that chilling, final word: Mine.