The Headlines Won’t Win
“No matter where you were, I would’ve found you. Even if you were halfway across the world. Even if I had to fight every fucking thread of destiny just to get to you. No one else stood a chance.”
– Rhys
The villa was too quiet in the early morning hush. Dawn light stretched across the marble floors, painting the world in soft golds and muted shadows. My eyes cracked open, the scent of sea salt and jasmine still clinging to the sheets, but the bed was empty—too empty. Too cold.
I sat up slowly, my chest already aching with the echo of her absence. My hand reached out instinctively to the space she’d left behind, still warm, still breathing with the ghost of her. The imprint of her body in the mattress was a taunt, a promise, and I let my fingers linger there, tracing the shape of a woman who owned every inch of my skin without ever having to ask.
God, she wrecked me.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, bare feet meeting cool marble, the hush of the room almost too loud. The world was always louder when she wasn’t in it—like the air itself refused to settle without her breath to anchor it.
The house was awake, but quiet. Staff moved like shadows, heads down, as if they could feel the storm brewing in my chest. They didn’t meet my eyes. They knew better.
I found her in the kitchen, perched at the counter in a tangle of bare legs and attitude. My shirt hung off her shoulder like it belonged there, her hair a tousled mess of soft defiance. She was eating cereal—cereal, of all things—like it was the only thing standing between her and complete collapse.
My steps slowed as I watched her, the way she frowned at the bowl, the way her lips pressed tight like she was waging war on the world one spoonful at a time. She was breathtaking in her quiet fury—no makeup, no armour, just the raw edge of a woman who’d survived too much and still found a way to taste sweetness. And God, I wanted her more in that moment than I ever had in a thousand silk dresses.
I crossed the room, my steps silent, the weight of me already reaching for her even before my hands did. She didn’t look up—didn’t need to. She always knew when I was near, the way the air itself shifted to let me in. I stopped behind her, close enough to feel the heat of her skin, close enough to taste the tension in her shoulders. My hands slid around her waist, fingers curling against the soft cotton of my shirt as I leaned down, my breath warm against the shell of her ear.
“Morning, kitten,” I murmured, my voice still thick with sleep, still rough with the need to claim. “You always look better in my clothes than I ever did.”
She didn’t smile. Not right away. Her eyes stayed locked on the cereal like it had personally offended her, but her body leaned back into mine, just a fraction—just enough to let me know she felt me. Needed me. Even if she didn’t want to admit it yet.
I pressed a kiss to her temple, my hands tightening around her waist, the quiet violence of my need a promise against her skin.
“Couldn’t sleep?” I asked softly.
She shrugged, her lips pursing. “Too much noise in my head,” she muttered. “Even in the quiet.”
I understood. God, did I understand. The quiet was the worst—it let the memories creep in, the ghosts of what we’d survived clawing their way back up from the dark.
I didn’t ask. I didn’t need to. I just held her tighter, my chin resting on her shoulder as I let the warmth of her seep into my bones.
That’s when I saw it—the paper. Half-crumpled, half-proud in the way headlines always were. It lay on the counter like a challenge, the bold black letters cutting through the morning calm.
I felt my jaw tighten, felt the way her shoulders stiffened beneath my hands. She’d seen it. She’d read it—maybe not every word, maybe not even the language, but she’d felt the weight of it all the same. And that was enough.
I reached for the paper, fingers brushing hers as I did, and pulled it closer, my eyes narrowing as I scanned the headline. My lips curled in a smile that held no warmth.
Of course. Of fucking course.
“They’re at it again,” I said softly, my voice calm but dangerous, like the sea before it breaks the shore. “Always hungry for a new story. A new scandal. A new way to tear you down.”
She didn’t answer, but her jaw tightened, and I could see the fire in her eyes starting to spark again. Good. Let it burn. I’d feed it with everything I had.
I leaned in closer, my breath a whisper against her skin.
“Let them write their stories, mon amour. Let them spit their venom. They can’t touch what we’ve built here. They can’t touch you.”
She let out a slow breath, her shoulders relaxing just a little as she finally looked up at me, those fierce blue eyes meeting mine.
“Then read it to me,” she said, her voice low, resigned but defiant. “Let’s see what kind of lies they’re selling today.”
And that was all I needed. I pulled back just enough to open the paper, the rustle of it loud in the quiet room. My thumb traced the edge of the page, and then I read it—slow, deliberate, every word a poison I was determined to defang. And when I was done, when the last lie had fallen flat in the air between us, I dropped the paper back on the counter like the garbage it was.
“‘Llewellyn Heiress Caught in Emotional Studio Outburst — Pregnancy Confirmed Amidst Scandal,’” I read flatly, my voice dripping with disdain as I dropped the paper back on the counter like garbage. “They’re painting you as dramatic. Impulsive. Like you staged the pregnancy for headlines.”
I looked at her then—really looked at her. All legs, all fire, all mine. I reached across the counter, my fingers tangling with hers, grounding her as much as myself.
“We can respond. We can fight back. Or we can let them choke on the silence while we build our empire, mon amour. You lead. I follow.”
“Last time we tried to paint our narrative, it didn’t go so well,” she grumbled, pushing her plate away, appetite lost to the venom of the world. “Can’t they find a scandal about you for once and leave me out of it? But I guess you’re the media golden boy. I’m just the hanger on.”
I moved without hesitation, coming around the counter to sit beside her, eye to eye, my hands finding her face, cupping her jaw with a touch that was as much a claim as a comfort.
“You are not the hanger on, Jasmine. You’re the woman who pulled me out of the wreckage—who stood in front of the world and didn’t flinch. Who survived being hunted, tortured, silenced, and still loves like the world hasn’t already tried to break her a hundred times. I’m the golden boy because I played their game. But you? You’re the reason the game doesn’t fucking matter anymore. Because you’re not here to fit in, kitten. You’re the reason I can’t see anything else. You’re the headline—because you’re mine, yes, but more than that? Because I’m yours.”
She slumped forward on the bench, her forehead resting on her arms with that quiet, beautiful exhaustion only she could make look so fucking powerful.
“Why couldn’t I have fallen in love with a homeless man or something?” she muttered.
I let out a low, rumbling laugh, my lips brushing her hair, my voice warm and sure as I murmured against her skin.
“You really think you could’ve handled a man with no bed to throw you down in, mon amour? Or one who couldn’t feed your increasingly dangerous McNugget cravings?”
I kissed her hair, a grin pulling at my lips despite the steel in my chest.
“No, kitten. You fell for the man underneath the suit. And I would’ve given it all up for you if you’d asked me to—the money, the press, the power. But you didn’t. You stayed. Even when it hurt. And that makes you braver than anyone who’s ever wanted me.”
I pulled back just enough to kiss the tip of her nose, soft and smug all at once.
“And for the record—I fell in love with a woman who walks into fire, who says exactly what she thinks, and who calls me out when I flirt too much in front of company. A homeless man wouldn’t have lasted a week.”
“A week. You’re generous. Most people wouldn’t last a day,” she snorted, her voice thick with reluctant amusement, that fire in her eyes starting to glow again.
I leaned back, grinning, my hands still resting on her hips, possessive even in the smallest touches.
She was still slumped on the bench, all mock misery and sass, but I saw through it. I always fucking saw through it. She might’ve been joking—dripping sarcasm like honey over steel—but I heard the ache buried underneath. The fear. The insecurity. That quiet, insidious thought that maybe, just maybe, the world saw her as less.
And fuck the world for that.
I stood behind her again, slow and steady, arms wrapping around her front, body curling over hers as I pressed my chest to her back. My chin dipped to her shoulder. I didn’t say anything for a beat. Just let my presence speak louder than words. Let the weight of me remind her that I wasn’t going anywhere. That I chose this. Chose her.
“Could’ve had a man who didn’t own five houses,” I murmured against her neck. “Who didn’t fly private, or make security teams sweat, or own stock in half the bloody European economy. But then you wouldn’t have had a man who can buy out the paper that printed that headline.”
“Only five houses, monsieur?” The corner of her lip quirked upwards.
It was playful. But the way her voice softened after—when her hand rose to my face and her fingers found the edge of my jaw like they belonged there—that wrecked me.
“Or one who’d sell every damn share I own just to keep your name off another scandal sheet again.”
I moved around to face her fully, crouching so we were eye level—me on my knees in front of my wife, unbothered, unwavering.
“You didn’t fall in love with a homeless man, Jasmine,” I said, voice low, slow, deliberate. “You fell in love with a man who’s spent every breath since meeting you trying to earn that love. Trying to be enough for you. And I’ve watched you carry more in a year than most people survive in a lifetime. You think any of those vultures would’ve survived what you have? You think they could’ve held me through a panic attack, tied me back to this world when I nearly drowned in grief, dragged my heart back into my chest with a single look? They wouldn’t have lasted a day. You brought me back to life.”
I pressed a kiss to her brow, to the corner of her mouth, to the hand still curled on the counter like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to be held like this.
“Next time you think about falling in love with a homeless man,” I whispered, “remember this: I’d have tracked him down. Dismantled his camp. And walked you right the fuck home. You think I wouldn’t have found you? Mon amour... I’d have crossed oceans for a glimpse of your silhouette. Torn down cities for the sound of your voice.”
I reached for her fully then—both hands cradling her face, my thumbs tracing the curve of her cheek, her lips, the soft lines that only I ever got to see.
“No matter where you were,” I murmured, “I would’ve found you. Even if you were halfway across the world. Even if I had to fight every fucking thread of destiny just to get to you. No one else stood a chance.”
