Chapter 7: War Behind Smiles

Morning came like a slap to the face—sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the chaos of the night before. Torn sheets, discarded clothes, the lingering scent of lust and something more dangerous… possession.

Isla woke alone, unsurprised. Ezekiel Veylin was not the type to stay tangled in bedsheets after satisfaction. He had empires to control, reputations to uphold, and apparently, a contract to enforce.

Still, she didn’t feel defeated. For the first time since stepping into this glass prison, Isla felt… powerful.

She dressed herself in a sharp navy pantsuit that hugged her in all the right places, her hair in a sleek braid. Gone were the days of playing the meek, fragile wife. If she was going to survive in Ezekiel’s world, she would walk through it with her chin up and heels sharpened like blades.

Maddox was waiting for her in the hall, ever expressionless. “Mr. Veylin requests your presence in the office.”

Of course, he does.

Isla didn’t hesitate. She’d been called like a pawn before, but today felt different. Today, she wasn’t walking in as prey—she was walking in as a queen learning her game board.

The office was cold, modern, with towering windows and the man himself sitting behind a dark oak desk. Ezekiel didn’t look up immediately. His fingers were dancing across the screen of his tablet, jaw tight with focus. But she noticed the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth when she walked in—like approval… or hunger.

“You’re late,” he muttered, not looking up.

Isla walked right up to his desk and leaned forward, her voice sweet but laced with steel. “No, you’re early.”

That got his attention. His eyes snapped up, scanning her from head to toe. His gaze lingered at her neckline, then trailed to the curve of her hips outlined in tailored fabric. His tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth.

“You’re becoming dangerous, Mrs. Veylin,” Ezekiel said with a hint of amusement. “I’m not sure if I like it or want to break it.”

Isla smiled coldly. “Try me.”

For a moment, tension swirled between them again. Then, Ezekiel tossed the tablet across the table. “Our little performance is getting traction. Investors are pleased. The media can’t get enough of us. Even the board members are backing down… for now.”

Isla flipped through the images—photos of them from the gala, perfectly captured smiles, lingering touches, whispers in crowded rooms. Publicly, they were becoming the image of a power couple. Privately… they were two storms circling each other.

“And Vivienne?” Isla asked.

Ezekiel’s expression turned sharp. “Vivienne is cornered, but don’t mistake that for surrender. She’s regrouping.”

Isla straightened. “Let her. She’s going to learn exactly what happens when she underestimates me.”

That feral glint returned to Ezekiel’s eyes. “Careful, kitten,” he said, standing and walking around the desk. His towering frame halted just before her, heat radiating between them. “Your claws excite me. But they also make you a target.”

“I’m already a target,” Isla whispered. “I’d rather be a target with teeth.”

Ezekiel’s lips curled into a dark grin before his hand caught her chin, tilting her face upward. “Then you’ll need to prepare for war.”

⸻

By the afternoon, the war had begun.

A headline surfaced on gossip outlets—“Mrs. Veylin’s Troubled Past: Debt, Scandal, and Secrets.” Isla stared at the screen, her stomach knotting but her jaw clenching harder. Old photographs of her working at the diner, old court records from debt collectors, even pictures of her run-down apartment had been leaked.

Ezekiel stood behind her, reading over her shoulder. His voice was devoid of surprise. “Vivienne’s retaliation.”

Isla swallowed down the burn in her throat. “I should’ve expected this.”

Ezekiel’s hand rested on her shoulder, firm. “You’re not hiding from this. You’ll face it head-on.”

She turned, confused. “What are you planning?”

His grin was pure wickedness. “An exclusive interview. We’ll crush their narrative before it gains traction.”

Isla blinked. “Me? Speak to the media?”

“You won’t grovel,” Ezekiel said, crossing his arms. “You’ll own it. You’ll tell them exactly where you came from, exactly what you survived. You won’t deny your past—you’ll make it your weapon.”

Her heart beat wildly at the thought, but she nodded. If they wanted a show, she’d give them one they’d never forget.

⸻

The next day, Isla sat across from the most influential business journalist in the country, cameras pointed at her, lights blinding, heart hammering in her chest. Ezekiel sat beside her, calm, poised, his hand resting over hers in a show of silent support—or calculated strategy.

The journalist smiled politely. “Mrs. Veylin, there are… interesting rumors circulating about your past. Would you like to address them?”

Isla took a steady breath, lifting her chin. “Of course. I was a waitress. I lived in a cramped apartment. I took care of my sick brother while drowning in medical bills. Every inch of my success is built on survival, not privilege.”

A murmur swept through the room.

Ezekiel squeezed her hand.

Isla continued, “And yes, I married a billionaire. Yes, people question my worth because I didn’t come from wealth. But while others inherited their names, I earned mine. Every bruise, every debt, every broken day shaped me into the woman sitting here now. I don’t apologize for it… I own it.”

By the end of the interview, Isla had flipped the narrative on its head. The interviewer called her inspiring. Social media erupted with praise. Headlines shifted from scandal to survival.

Back in the car, Ezekiel turned to her, pride gleaming in his usually cold stare. “You didn’t just survive, Isla. You conquered.”

And as the city sped past, Isla realized she hadn’t just married a devil.

She was becoming one.