Chapter 9: The First Board Counter-Attack

The iron-framed windows of the historic building in the high-fashion district overlooked a cobblestone square drenched in late-morning light. The space was raw, magnificent, and hollow—vaulted archways, exposed brick, and plaster that smelled faintly of aged timber and dust.

Adelaide walked the perimeter, her footsteps echoing in the empty showroom. In her hand, she held the floor plans for what would soon become the global flagship of Vance Atelier.

"The light on the north wall is perfect for displaying structural silks," Adelaide said, her voice calm and measured as she glanced back at Ren, who stood near the grand entrance, flanked by two unobtrusive security guards. "We’ll place the main cutting tables in the back gallery."

"I will have the leasing agreements finalized by noon, Mrs. Grayson," Ren replied, his tone smooth as silk.

Before Adelaide could step into the adjoining fitting rooms, the sharp, rhythmic buzz of Ren’s encrypted phone shattered the room's quiet.

Ren pulled the device from his breast pocket. As his eyes scanned the screen, the unflappable composure that usually defined Dean’s chief of staff shifted into something cold and razor-sharp.

"What is it?" Adelaide asked, turning to face him.

"A coordinated hit," Ren said concisely, tapping the screen to bring up a live stream before handing the device to her. "It broke five minutes ago. Oscar and his faction on the Grayson Global board have made their first official move."

Adelaide took the phone. The screen was filled with the flashing lights of a packed press conference held in the grand atrium of the Montgomery Hotel—Oscar’s home turf.

On screen, Oscar stood behind a podium adorned with the Montgomery corporate crest. He wore a tailored navy suit, but his eyes were bloodshot, his smile tight and practiced. Standing at his side, wrapped in a pastel pink tweed suit that screamed aristocratic wealth, was Maeve. Her arm was looped tightly through Oscar’s, a triumphant, cat-like grin playing on her lips.

Adelaide turned up the volume. Oscar’s voice boomed through the phone's speaker.

"—and so, in the interest of full transparency to our shareholders and the public,"* Oscar was saying, leaning into the bank of microphones, *"I am officially confirming that my marriage to Adelaide Vance has been legally dissolved. It was a quiet, clean divorce."

A chorus of reporters shouted questions, their camera flashes creating a strobe effect on screen. Oscar raised a hand, assuming an air of mournful dignity.

"Adelaide is a woman from a fallen family," Oscar continued, his voice dripping with rehearsed pity that made Adelaide’s stomach turn. "I gave her shelter for six years out of respect for her late father. But the truth is, she was an impoverished parasite living off the Montgomery name. She brought nothing to the table, proved utterly incapable of fulfilling her spousal duties, and ultimately failed to produce an heir to secure our family's legacy. I wished her well, but a man in my position requires a partner of substance—not a ghost living on charity."

Oscar turned, taking Maeve’s hand and bringing it to his lips as the room erupted into a frenzy of camera shutters.

*"I am thrilled to announce,"* Oscar declared, looking straight into the main camera, *"that Maeve Sterling and I have renewed our relationship. We represent the future of this city's real estate and fashion royalty. As for Adelaide... I hear she’s left town. Penniless, as she arrived."*

The stream cut to a panel of high-society commentators already tearing Adelaide’s reputation to shreds, framing her as a discarded, barren ex-wife who had been cast out into the cold.

Adelaide stared at the screen, her dark eyes completely still. There was no tearful shock, no panic. The air around her seemed to drop ten degrees.

"They timed it deliberately," Ren explained, his voice low. "Oscar’s allies on the Grayson Global board—specifically Director Vance and the old-guard faction—simultaneously leaked fake corporate memos claiming Dean is distracted by personal scandals. They are trying to tank Grayson Global’s morning stock to force Dean into a defensive position before the Annual Gala."

Adelaide handed the phone back to Ren. "They think I’m hiding in a hole, weeping over a lost title."

"Oscar believes you have no platform to fight back," Ren agreed. "He assumes you are isolated."

"He assumes wrong," Adelaide said softly.

Her mind moved with terrifying clarity. Oscar had played his best card: public humiliation. He believed that by painting her as a barren, discarded parasite, he had stripped her of all human dignity. He thought he had buried her before she could even take her first breath as Dean’s wife.

She turned back to the grand, sunlit space of her future atelier.

"Call the leasing agent, Ren," Adelaide commanded, her voice dropping to an icy, absolute register. "Tell them I’m buying the building outright, not leasing it. Wire the funds immediately from my new account."

Ren’s eyebrows twitched upward—a rare sign of surprise. "Outright, Mrs. Grayson?"

"Outright," she repeated, turning to face him. Her cream coat caught the morning light, her posture regally straight. "And then I want you to call the editor-in-chief of *Vogue International* and the lead fashion correspondent for the *Financial Times*. Tell them Mrs. Adelaide Grayson will be hosting a private, exclusive hard-hat walkthrough of the new *Vance Atelier* flagship in two hours."

Ren’s lips curved into a faint, approving smile. "You aren't going to release a press statement denying his claims?"

"A press statement is what guilty people use to plead for mercy," Adelaide said, stepping toward the exit with smooth, purposeful strides. "Oscar wants a media circus? I will give him a masterclass in power. Let him parade Maeve around in pastels. In two hours, the world will see that while he was busy holding a press conference in a rented hotel ballroom, his 'impoverished ex-wife' just purchased three blocks of prime fashion real estate under the Grayson name."

As they stepped out of the building and into the waiting black town car, Adelaide’s private phone vibrated in her handbag.

She pulled it out. The caller ID showed an encrypted line.

She answered, pressing the phone to her ear. "Dean."

"I saw the press conference," Dean’s deep, velvet voice cut through the line, heavy with a dark, dangerous undertone that made the hair on her arms stand up. "My legal team is already preparing defamation lawsuits that will strip Oscar of his remaining liquid assets. I can have his hotel chain blacklisted by market close."

"No," Adelaide said immediately, her tone unwavering. "Don't touch him."

A brief silence hung on the line before Dean spoke, his voice low and possessive. "He stood on live television and called my wife a parasite, Adelaide. He tried to drag your name through the mud to score points with my board."

"And he thinks he succeeded," Adelaide replied, a cold, sharp smile touching her lips as she looked out the car window at the passing city. "If you destroy him now with your corporate hammer, they will say you are hiding me behind your strength. They will say I needed a billionaire to save me."

"What do you want to do?" Dean asked, his voice laced with intense, quiet intrigue.

"Let him celebrate his little victory with Maeve today," Adelaide said softly, her thumb tracing the sleek edge of her unmonitored black card. "Let him think I am broken. Because in five days, at your Annual Gala, I am going to walk into that ballroom on your arm—and I am going to destroy him in front of every board member he tried to manipulate."

Over the line, Adelaide heard the faint sound of Dean exhaling—a low, dark chuckle that vibrated with raw, dangerous approval.

"Six days just became five, Mrs. Grayson," Dean murmured, his tone possessive and sharp as steel. *"Don't keep me waiting."