Chapter 47 – “Public Love, Private Battles”

It started with a headline.

Not in some scandal rag, either — this was Forbes.

DARCY STEPPING BACK? Inside Eliza Darcy's Shift from Powerhouse to Private Life

She read it standing barefoot in their kitchen, toast forgotten in the toaster.

The article was all speculation. Anonymous sources. Distant board whispers. A photo of her leaving a community event holding Will's hand — taken with a zoom lens from across the street.

They called it "a possible soft retirement."They called him "a distraction."

She didn't say a word until Will walked in.

"Hey," he said, setting down his phone. "Did you see—"

"I saw."

She didn't look up.

He crossed the room slowly. Touched her hand.

"Eliza."

"Don't," she said.

It wasn't anger. It was something sharper. Something older.

Will stepped back.

For a moment, the room filled with that heavy, hollow quiet — the kind that felt like before. Before them.

But then she exhaled.

Her hand found his again.

"They think I'm stepping back because of you," she said. "That I'm going soft. That I'm giving up the company to play house."

He didn't flinch. "Are you?"

She finally looked up at him. Her gaze was fire and glass.

"No," she said. "I'm choosing balance. Peace. Something real."

He nodded.

"Then let them talk."

She hesitated.

"I don't like being... dissected. Reduced. They always need a narrative. And they always want the woman to be the one who gave up something."

"Then let's write our own story."

But it wasn't just headlines.

The comments came next.

Anonymous forums. LinkedIn jabs. An ex-colleague who said Eliza "used to be sharp before she fell in love."

One post showed up in Will's inbox anonymously. It called him her pet project.

He didn't show it to her.

But it sat in him like a weight.

Three nights later, they had dinner on the rooftop. No media. No noise. Just stars trying to shine through city haze and the sound of wine being poured.

"You're quiet," she said.

"So are you."

He finally said it.

"They're coming after me, too."

She looked at him, startled.

"They think I'm using you," he added softly. "That I needed your brand to stay relevant."

Her jaw tightened.

"I hate this," she muttered. "I hate that we have to defend what's ours."

Will reached across the table, took her hand.

"We don't," he said. "We just have to protect it."

She searched his eyes.

And then—just like that—her walls dropped.

"I'm afraid I'll lose myself again," she whispered. "Trying to be soft. Trying to be enough."

Will stood. Moved around the table. Knelt beside her, hands on her thighs.

"You don't have to be soft," he said. "You just have to be honest."

And when she kissed him—right there under the lights, with half the city probably watching—it wasn't a statement.

It was a promise.

They were still them.

And no one else got to write their ending.