Breakfast Ambush

Artemis's POV

I woke to the sound of footsteps on hardwood, the faint rustle of a newspaper, and the low hum of classical piano drifting in from somewhere beyond the suite.

For one blissful moment, I didn't remember anything.

The sun filtered gently through gauzy curtains. The bed beneath me felt soft, foreign. My limbs were strangely loose, like my body had finally given up the fight. I turned onto my back and stared at the ceiling, letting the sound of piano—something slow and aching—fill the silence where my thoughts should've been.

And then it all came rushing back.

The wedding.

The ivory dress I hadn't picked.

The man I'd married.

The glint of lenses.

The contract.

The whispers.

The price.

The silk sheets beneath me weren't mine. The pillow didn't smell like home. The air itself was laced with something expensive—bergamot, maybe, or some kind of designer citrus I couldn't place.

I pressed my palms to my face and exhaled.

I was still wearing yesterday's camisole. Wrinkled. Sweat-slicked. Sleepless.

And married.

There was a soft knock on the bedroom door. Then a pause.

"There's coffee, if you want it," Isaiah's voice called. Calm. Level. Not asking for anything.

Just an offering.

I didn't answer. I just sat up slowly, swinging my legs over the edge of the mattress. My head swam. My body ached—not the way people might assume after a wedding night, but from tension. From years of learning how to brace.

Every muscle was sore from holding too much of myself inside.

I took ten minutes. Washed my face. Combed my hair. Changed into the loose white shirt and tailored silk slacks I found neatly folded on the vanity stool—tagged with my name. Size 2. Petite. Of course he got it right.

When I emerged, Isaiah was seated at the breakfast nook that wrapped around the suite's curved glass walls.

And I had to blink, because—God help me—it wasn't fair how good he looked.

He wore a deep navy shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing strong forearms and a faint trail of veins along his wrists. The color made his skin glow warmer, like dusk caught in fabric. His collar was open, the shirt slightly rumpled in a way that looked effortless, curated. Barefoot again, like he didn't need polish to hold power. The kind of man who exuded quiet control. Stillness disguised as elegance.

It was unfair—how calm he looked while I felt like a glass about to shatter.

He glanced up just briefly, then folded his newspaper and slid it aside.

"Are you hungry?"

I nodded, mute.

He poured a second mug of coffee—black, steam curling—and pushed it toward the seat across from him. "I ordered congee, soft-boiled eggs, and toast. Didn't know what you'd prefer."

I sat down. The chair was too comfortable. The silence was too gentle. I gripped the edge of the table like it might disappear.

"Do you…" I tried to fill the quiet. "Do you always start mornings with Bach and black coffee?"

His brow arched slightly. "No. I usually have espresso and email at six. But we're married now. I thought I'd make an effort."

Was that a joke?

Before I could figure it out, his phone buzzed once. Then again. Then again. He didn't check it. Just flipped it over face-down and returned to his coffee.

Mine—

My pulse kicked. "My phone. Where's—?"

"Burned," he said, casually lifting a spoonful of congee. "Or rather, disabled. Too many pings overnight. You're trending."

My heart plummeted. "You what?"

"Don't worry. Your files were backed up to our joint server. Liv's handling PR."

Of course. Livia Han. Jiang family's elegant, razor-sharp fixer. I'd met her once—twenty minutes of polite smiles and terrifying precision.

"They're calling you the 'Ghost Heiress' now," he added lightly. "Or the 'Architect of Her Own Undoing.' Depends on the outlet."

I collapsed back into the chair. My stomach churned. "Goodness."

"You'll want to read the coverage before we face them."

"Them?"

Isaiah lifted his gaze. Calm. Unbothered.

"The press."

I turned toward the floor-to-ceiling glass.

And then I saw them.

Below us, a swarm of reporters clogged the private driveway. Cameras. Drones. Boom mics. Placards waved in the summer breeze. One was scrawled in bold black paint:

"XU-POSED: THE SCANDAL YOU DIDN'T BUILD ALONE."

My lungs refused to work.

Another sign read:

"ELYSIAN LIES: BLOOD AND BRICKS."

And in the center of the chaos—Haoxing Daily. Of course. Already setting up their main camera crew.

"They really brought drones," I muttered.

Isaiah stood, opened a side cabinet, and pulled out a slim tablet. He slid it toward me.

"Start with this one," he said. "You're quoted."

I didn't want to read it.

I read it anyway.

"Artemis Xu, 26, whose architectural firm unveiled the controversial 'Project Elysian' redevelopment in Tiansong last year, has been revealed as the estranged granddaughter of Liang Zhenhua—a former city housing executive whose ties to land-grabbing in the early 2000s led to a series of hushed evictions and undisclosed payouts to political families."

"Her latest urban renewal effort has drawn criticism for its aestheticization of generational poverty. In a 2022 interview, Ms. Xu said: 'I photograph stories I don't want lost.' Ironically, one of those stories was her own."

My throat closed.

"I didn't…" My voice cracked. "I didn't know."

Isaiah had returned to his seat. He was sipping coffee like this was a strategy meeting. Like I wasn't crumbling across from him.

"I believe you."

I blinked. Looked up. "You do?"

"You're many things, Artemis. But manipulative isn't one of them."

That stunned me more than the headline.

He went on. "The story's gaining traction. Everyone loves a hypocrite in hiding. But you didn't hide anything. You just didn't know you were the story."

I pressed my palms to my eyes. "It was supposed to be a humanizing series. Project Elysian was about visibility—preservation through modernization. I was trying to honor lives, not… unearth secrets."

Isaiah's voice gentled. "But secrets have roots. And sometimes… they crack the foundation."

I stared at him. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Not quite the word I'd use."

"You think I wanted this marriage?" I asked bitterly. "You think I dreamed of becoming the poster girl for ruin?"

Isaiah set his cup down. "No. I think you're the wildfire they feared."

He said it like a fact. Not a compliment. Not a warning.

"That's why I agreed," he added.

"To what?"

"To marrying you. So they wouldn't."

I froze. "You agreed to marry me… to keep me from their control?"

He looked out at the sky. "You needed coverage. I needed to get out of an engagement I didn't choose. It wasn't romance. It was self-preservation."

"You could've said no."

"So could you."

Touché.

We fell into silence again. But this one felt different. Heavier, maybe. Or clearer.

"They're going to keep digging," I murmured. "The more they find about my mother's family, the more they'll twist it. I didn't even meet her. She died when I was three."

Isaiah leaned forward. "You don't have to explain yourself to me."

"But your name is tied to mine now. You'll get pulled into this."

"I've been a headline since I was twelve. The Jiang name doesn't break that easily."

"You really don't care?"

"I care," he said, holding my gaze. "But I care more about what we do next."

A beat of silence.

I narrowed my eyes. "What does that mean?"

"It means if we're married now… we handle this as a team."

I didn't know what to say.

Downstairs, the noise was rising. Reporters. Microphones. Someone shouting my name.

Isaiah stood and moved toward the intercom. A crackling voice came through: "Sir. Media is trying the back exit too."

He turned back to me. "We've got twenty minutes before someone with a drone gets a clear angle of you crying into your coffee."

"I'm not crying."

"You're about to."

I wiped a cheek. He was right.

"You'll want to shower," he said gently. "Change. I had a wardrobe delivered from Rivière. I guessed your size."

My head snapped up. "You guessed?"

He paused at the bedroom door. "You're a 2. Petite cut. Narrow shoulders. Long legs. And you hate tight collars."

"…Okay, stalker."

He almost smiled. "Photographic memory. Comes in handy."

And then he was gone.

Leaving me alone at the breakfast table, blinking back the first tears in days.

Not because I was weak.

But because, for once, someone didn't tell me to be strong.

By the time I emerged twenty minutes later—dressed in the beige Rivière midi dress and kitten heels Isaiah had somehow guessed perfectly—the air in the suite had shifted. Not just in temperature. In tension. Expectation.

Isaiah stood by the window, phone pressed to his ear, voice calm but clipped. "Yes. No, we won't do a press conference. A single photo, controlled angle. That's all. Yes. Thank you."

He ended the call and turned.

And froze.

Just for a second.

His breath caught—not audibly, not obviously—but enough. His eyes widened, then narrowed in quiet assessment. I saw the flicker. The hesitation. Like he hadn't expected me to look like this.

The dress was simple, understated. A high neckline with soft pleats at the collarbone, the fabric folding like watercolor across my frame. It cinched just above the waist, skimming over my hips before falling into an elegant, tea-length hem. The color—muted oyster beige—looked unremarkable on the hanger, but against my skin, it glowed. Subtle. Sleek. Unapologetically expensive.

I'd pinned my hair half-up with delicate gold combs Liv had included in the box, letting the rest fall in soft waves over my shoulders. My lips were bare, except for a faint coral tint. No jewelry. No armor.

Just me.

He studied me in full—eyes lingering at my collarbone, then down the line of the dress, then back to my face. And when his gaze met mine again, it was different.

Not clinical. Not strategic.

Captivated.

I had no idea what to do with that look. So I said the only thing I could.

"Well?"

He blinked once. Then offered a small, uncharacteristically soft smile. "They're not ready."

That made me laugh—quiet, unexpected, almost disbelieving.

"You ready to face them?" he asked after a pause, voice softer now.

"No," I admitted. "But I'll do it anyway."

He took a step closer. And for the first time, he touched me.

His hand brushed lightly against my arm, the contact barely there, like he was asking permission with his fingertips. It was nothing—and yet it stilled something wild inside me.

"Then walk beside me," he said, voice steady. "Not behind. Not in front. Beside. That's what this marriage is now. Let them see that."

I met his eyes.

For once, there was no wall between us.

Not performance. Not strategy. Not shame.

Just two people caught in a storm of legacy and lies, trying to pretend this wasn't the worst day of their lives.

Something in me cracked. And softened.

I nodded.

We moved to the elevator together, his hand warm and solid at my back as the doors closed. The numbers ticked down floor by floor.

And when they opened— The world exploded.

The hotel lobby was no longer a lobby.

It was a warzone.

Flashes went off like gunfire. Shutters clicked. A thousand voices shouted at once.

"Artemis! Are you related to Liang Zhenhua?"

"Did you marry to cover up your scandal?"

"Is it true you lived in hiding for a year?"

"Were you aware of the land seizures tied to Project Elysian?"

"Did you exploit the community for profit?"

"Was your photo series staged—?"

The questions flew like arrows, sharpened by speculation and spite.

I froze. Just half a second. But it was enough. My heart crashed into my ribs. My hands trembled.

Then Isaiah's fingers found mine.

And squeezed.

Not hard. Not tight.

Just enough to remind me: I wasn't alone.

We stepped forward. Together.

Through the barrage of questions, through the thicket of microphones, through the sea of judgment.

They wanted a crack. A reaction. A reason to turn me into a headline again.

But Isaiah stayed at my side. Not in front. Not leading. Beside.

He kept his hand in mine like an anchor.

I lifted my chin. Let the cameras capture the truth they didn't expect.

A woman who refused to break on cue.