The press conference was scheduled in less than twenty-four hours. Lena stood in front of the estate’s media room, where decorators and technical staff buzzed like bees in a hive. Bright lights were being installed, microphones tested, and camera tripods adjusted. It wasn’t going to be an overly formal affair—but it had to be perfect.
She adjusted her notes again, flipping through the speech Ruth had helped her draft. But every word felt clinical, impersonal. This wasn’t just a press briefing. It was the moment Lena would reclaim her narrative.
Carson entered, holding two coffees. “They’ve finalized the security. Police detail will be stationed at the main gate, and the backup team is inside.”
“Thanks,” she said, taking the cup but not sipping. “I’m rewriting the speech.”
He raised a brow. “Now?”
“I need it to sound like me. Not a brand. Not a PR strategy. Me.”
Carson nodded. “Then say what’s in your heart.”
She smiled. “I plan to.”
That evening, Lena stayed up late in the study, hand
