CHAPTER 40: THE PHOTOGRAPH THAT WENT VIRAL

The first thing I saw when I opened my phone the next morning was my own face beside Alexander Blackwood's.

For a few seconds, I didn't understand what I was looking at. Then I recognised the café, the street behind us, and the way Alexander was holding my hand. It was the photograph taken the previous night, just before he kissed me goodbye.

Someone had captured our private moment and published it online.

The headline read:

BLACKWOOD BILLIONAIRE'S MYSTERY WOMAN: WHO IS AMELIA CARTER?

My stomach tightened.

I opened the article. It had been published on an entertainment news website less than an hour earlier, but it was already being shared across social media. The photograph appeared everywhere, accompanied by different headlines, each one more dramatic than the last.

Alexander Blackwood finally finds love again?

The mystery woman winning the billionaire's heart.

Who is the woman seen with Blackwood International's powerful CEO?

I scrolled through the comments, although I knew I probably shouldn't.

Some people were surprisingly kind. They said we looked happy together and hoped Alexander had finally found someone who made him smile. Others were less generous.

One comment caught my attention.

She looks ordinary. I wonder what she wants from him.

Another read:

Another woman chasing a billionaire. We've seen this story before.

Someone had even found an old photograph of me outside the Blackwood mansion and shared it beside the new one.

My hands went cold.

I wasn't famous. I hadn't asked for attention. I had simply gone out for dinner with someone I cared about, and now strangers were discussing my clothes, my appearance, my background, and my intentions as if they knew me.

My phone rang.

It was Daniel.

"Amelia, is that you on the internet?"

I closed my eyes. "Good morning to you too."

"Don't joke. Mum saw it."

My heart sank. "What did she say?"

"She asked whether you were okay. I told her you probably hadn't seen it yet, but clearly I was wrong."

I heard my mother's voice in the background asking him to give me the phone.

"Sweetheart, are you alright?" she asked.

"I'm fine, Mum. It's just a photograph."

"People can be cruel when they don't know the truth."

"I know. Don't worry about it. I'll handle it."

She was quiet for a moment. "Just be careful. I don't want this affecting your work or bringing trouble to our door."

"I won't let that happen."

After the call, I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the photograph again.

It was strange how quickly something beautiful could become uncomfortable when other people got involved.

By the time I arrived at the design studio, Ethan had already seen the article.

He placed a cup of coffee on my desk. "I thought you might need this."

I gave him a tired smile. "Is everyone talking about it?"

"Some people. Most of them are curious. A few have already asked whether your connection to Alexander has anything to do with the Blackwood project."

I looked up sharply. "What did you tell them?"

"That your proposal went through the official process and that your work should be judged on its own merits."

"Thank you."

He pulled a chair closer. "Amelia, don't let this distract you. You earned your place in that selection process. You don't owe anyone an explanation for having dinner with someone."

I nodded, grateful that he understood.

But I knew the problem wasn't going away.

Alexander called just after eleven.

"I've seen the photograph," he said without greeting.

"So have I."

"Whoever took it had no right to publish it. My communications team can request its removal. We can also issue a statement confirming that your relationship has no connection to the company's selection process."

I could hear the anger beneath his controlled voice.

"Alexander, wait."

"They've already started questioning your intentions. I won't allow them to damage your reputation."

"I know you want to help, but please don't make decisions on my behalf."

Silence.

"I wasn't trying to—"

"I know. But I want to understand who published it and why. If we immediately use your influence to remove everything, we might never discover what they're trying to achieve."

He exhaled slowly.

"You're right."

I hadn't expected him to agree so quickly.

"I'll ask my team to preserve the original publication details and identify the source through the proper channels. No public statement or removal request unless you agree."

"Thank you."

"Are you alright?"

I looked at the photograph on my screen. "I don't like strangers discussing my life. And I'm worried they'll bring my family into it."

His voice softened. "I understand."

"And my career. I don't want people assuming I got opportunities because of you."

"Your work speaks for itself, Amelia. Anyone who has seen your proposal should be able to judge that."

"Not everyone is interested in facts."

"No," he admitted. "They're not."

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then he said, "I am sorry that our evening became public entertainment."

I smiled faintly. "It was still a good evening."

"It was."

"And I don't regret it."

"Neither do I."

After we ended the call, I tried to concentrate on my work, but another notification appeared.

This time, it was an email from a journalist.

The subject line read: INTERVIEW REQUEST — ALEXANDER BLACKWOOD'S NEW RELATIONSHIP.

I opened it.

The journalist introduced herself as Natalie Price, a senior reporter for a popular business and lifestyle publication. She wanted to interview me about my relationship with Alexander, how we met, and whether I planned to become involved in Blackwood International.

She also mentioned that the public was interested in my background and my sudden appearance beside one of the country's most influential businessmen.

I read the email twice.

Part of me wanted to ignore it. Another part wondered whether speaking openly might stop people from inventing their own stories.

But an interview could make everything worse. One sentence could be taken out of context, and a simple answer could become another headline.

That evening, I met Alexander at his apartment. He was waiting in the sitting room, his jacket folded over the back of a chair. Several papers lay on the coffee table.

"Have you found anything?" I asked.

"Not enough. The photograph was submitted through an anonymous account to the publication. The account was created recently, and we're checking the available information. I don't want to make assumptions."

I sat beside him and showed him the journalist's email.

He read it carefully.

"She wants an interview with you?"

"Yes. I don't know whether I should accept."

Alexander handed my phone back.

"What do you want to do?"

"That's the problem. I don't know."

"Then don't rush. You don't owe anyone an interview, Amelia. But if you decide you want to speak, I'll respect that too."

I looked at him. "You really won't try to stop me?"

"No. Your story belongs to you."

I leaned back against the sofa.

"I just wish people could leave us alone."

"So do I."

He reached for my hand, and I let him hold it. His thumb moved gently across my fingers.

"I can't promise that being with me will always be quiet," he said. "But I can promise not to make choices for you."

I turned towards him. "That's all I'm asking."

For a while, we sat together without speaking. Outside, the city lights flickered through the windows. I wanted to believe the worst of the situation was already behind us.

Then my phone vibrated.

An unknown number.

I almost ignored it, assuming it was another online stranger. But something made me open the message.

There were no insults, no demands for money, and no threats to publish more photographs.

Just one sentence.

You have no idea what happened before you entered Alexander's life.

I read it again.

A second message arrived.

Ask him what Clara Bennett was doing the night Evelyn disappeared.

My fingers tightened around the phone.

Alexander noticed my expression immediately.

"Amelia? What is it?"

I slowly turned the screen towards him.

He read the message.

The warmth disappeared from his face.

"Where did you get this?" he asked quietly.

"An unknown number. It just arrived."

He stared at the words for several seconds before looking at me.

"Clara Bennett," he murmured.

"Alexander, what happened the night Evelyn disappeared?"

He didn't answer immediately.

And for the first time that evening, I wondered whether the photograph from the gallery had been more than an unexpected discovery.

Because someone knew exactly which name would make us both afraid of the past.