Chapter 5

Elliot's POV

“I really do not know what to say about this.”

The door clicked shut behind me, the sound echoing in the quiet, suffocating stillness of the study. The room was opulent, like always, grand, refined, but today it felt like a prison. 

I stood there, facing my mother, the intricate rug beneath my feet suddenly felt like it was shifting. I had braced myself for my father’s rage, the booming voice, the thinly veiled threats masked as “advice.” 

But it was my mother who summoned me. And her eyes, heavy with quiet disappointment, cut deeper than any of my father’s fury ever could.

“Elliot,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “your father showed me the magazines… the pictures.”

I didn’t speak. I couldn’t. The air in the room had thickened, wrapping around my lungs like a vise. I fixed my gaze over her shoulder, focusing on the landscape painting behind her, a calm, distant meadow that had nothing to do with the storm inside me.

“He… he explained what he wants you to do,” she said. “The press conference tomorrow. He has prepared a statement.”

I finally looked her in the eyes. I wanted to be defiant, to scream, to demand justice, but all that remained in me was fatigue. 

“Mother, you know it’s not true,” I said, my voice raw. “You know what they are saying… it is not fabricated.”

Something flickered across her face, maybe pity, maybe regret, but she masked it quickly, slipping back into that well-worn expression of composed resolve.

“I know what your father believes is best for the family,” she said more firmly. “Sinclair Industries is on the edge of a crucial merger. These… allegations… they could destroy everything he’s worked for. Everything we’ve built.”

I stepped forward slightly. “But Mother… it’s my life. My happiness. Don’t I get a say in any of this?”

She sighed deeply, the sound so tired it felt like it had been echoing for generations. “Your father has made it clear what needs to be done. This isn’t about your personal feelings, Elliot. It’s about responsibility. It’s about protecting what’s ours.”

I let out a bitter laugh, the kind that came from a place of deep hurt. “Protecting what’s ours? Or protecting his legacy?”

Her lips tightened. “Don’t speak to me like that, Elliot. Your father is doing what he believes is right. And you will do as he says.”

“So that’s it?” I asked flatly. “There’s no discussion? No space for what I want?” She reached toward me, her hand hovering just above my arm, but never touching. 

“This is not easy for me either,” she said softly. “But sometimes… we make sacrifices for the greater good.”

“Sacrifices,” I echoed, the word tasting like ash. “And I’m the sacrifice.”

She didn’t answer. Her eyes drifted to the painting behind me, that damned painting, the one that seemed to mock me with its calm skies and rolling hills.

“You have the statement, I presume?” I asked.

She nodded, one tear sliding down her cheek. She didn’t hand it to me. She didn’t have to. I’d memorized it already, rehearsed it in my head until it burned. Lie by lie.

“Be ready tomorrow, Elliot,” she said, almost in a whisper. “Be strong.”

Then she walked out, leaving me alone. Alone with the silence. Alone with the weight of what I was about to do.

I was going to play the part. The obedient son. The loyal fiancé. I’d deny the truth. Bury it. Pretend everything was fine.

But inside me, a quiet voice whispered: It will never be fine again. I hadn’t really made a choice. It had been made for me. And I knew, with terrifying clarity, I would pay the price.

*****

The glare of the studio lights nearly blinded me. I sat at the head of a long table, surrounded by lawyers and PR strategists. 

My parents flanked me, their hands clenched tight, their faces unreadable. Reporters gathered in front of us like vultures, cameras flashing, microphones thrust toward us like weapons.

This was it. The moment of truth.

My father cleared his throat, his voice slicing through the tension like a blade. “Ladies and gentlemen of the press,” he began, “we’ve called this conference today to address the recent, scurrilous allegations made against my son, Elliot Sinclair, regarding his personal life.”

He gestured toward me, smiling tightly.

“As you all know, Elliot is engaged to the beautiful and accomplished Clara. They are a couple deeply in love, and we are eagerly anticipating their upcoming wedding. These recent claims, suggesting otherwise, are not only hurtful and defamatory, they are completely false.”

I swallowed, my throat parched. I already knew what came next. I’d rehearsed it. Again and again. But now, every word tasted like poison.

My father’s eyes bore into mine, commanding, expectant. My mother looked at me too. There was something in her eyes… a softness… or maybe guilt?

I forced myself to look away.

“My son has been the victim of a malicious and calculated smear campaign,” my father continued, voice rising. “These fabricated images, clearly manipulated and photoshopped, are an attempt to ruin his reputation, damage our family, and interfere with the impending merger that will place Sinclair Industries at the forefront of the global market.”

He paused, theatrically. Then he turned to me, placing a hand on my shoulder.

“Elliot,” he said, almost gently, “would you like to say something?”

Every eye in the room turned to me. The lights, the cameras, the hungry journalists, all waiting to catch a crack in my armor.

I took a deep breath and met their gaze.

“Yes,” I said, steady but hollow. “These allegations… these pictures… they’re completely false. I’ve never had any relationship with the person depicted in the images. They’re fake. Photoshopped. Malicious attempts to distort the truth.”

I paused. In my mind, Jonah’s face appeared. His smile. His touch. His belief in me. I shoved it all away.

“I love Clara,” I went on, voice laced with performance. “We’re happy. We’re looking forward to building a future together. This smear campaign won’t break us. We won’t let it.”

The room stirred, whispers, cameras, the relentless clicking of shutters.

“We believe this attack is directly connected to the upcoming merger,” my father added. “Our competitors are desperate. And they have resorted to cheap, despicable tactics. We will fight back. Legally, and publicly. We will uncover who’s behind this.”

The rest of the conference passed in a blur. Questions came. I answered them all, polished, perfect lies. I denied. I deflected. I obeyed.

And finally, it ended. The crowd dispersed. 

I rose from my seat, empty. Hollow.

My father gave me a nod. A rare flicker of pride in his eyes. “Good job, son,” he said, slapping my back. “You handled it well.”

I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t breathe.

Because I had just betrayed Jonah.

And worse, I had betrayed myself.

I didn’t know how I would survive this. But I knew one thing for certain, this was only the beginning.

And the price?

It would be far more than I was prepared to pay.