26. What It Costs To Stay

I learned something important that night.

Power doesn’t announce itself loudly.

It whispers into boardrooms, into social circles, into the quiet spaces where decisions are made without you in the room.

I lay awake long after Adrian left for his study. The penthouse felt too large, too quiet, as if the walls themselves were listening. I replayed everything in my head not just the evening, but the looks, the pauses, the way people had recalibrated the moment Adrian called me his wife.

Reputational instability.

That was what they called me.

Not a scandal. Not a threat. Just… instability. Something untested. Something that could wobble the carefully built empire if left unchecked.

I pressed my palm against my chest and forced myself to breathe.

I wasn’t naïve. I knew marrying a man like Adrian meant stepping into a world that measured people by legacy, bloodlines, and usefulness. But knowing it and feeling it were two very different things.

By morning, the penthouse buzzed with quiet urgency.

Staff moved faster. Voices were lower. The tension was tangible.

I dressed carefully not extravagantly, not modestly. Intentional. I chose a soft-colored dress with clean lines, something that didn’t scream wife or outsider. Just… present.

Adrian found me in the living room as I fastened my bracelet.

“You don’t have to attend the meeting,” he said.

I met his gaze in the mirror. “I know.”

“But?”

“But I won’t hide,” I replied. “Not after last night.”

His jaw tightened. “They won’t be kind.”

I turned fully then. “Neither am I.”

That earned me a long look. Not protective. Not controlling.

Assessing.

“Stay if you want,” he said finally. “But understand this is where they’ll test you.”

I nodded. “Then it’s better I hear it firsthand.”

The boardroom was colder than I expected.

Not in temperature but in atmosphere.

The men seated around the table looked at me with expressions carefully trained to reveal nothing. I recognized the type. They didn’t need to insult you. Silence was sharper.

I sat beside Adrian, hands folded calmly in my lap.

The meeting began without pleasantries.

“Adrian,” one of them said, voice smooth, “we need to discuss last night.”

Of course they did.

“The optics,” another added. “The timing.”

I felt the weight of their words press against my spine.

Adrian’s voice was steady. “Say what you mean.”

They didn’t look at me when they answered.

“This marriage,” the first man said, “raises questions.”

There it was.

I leaned forward slightly. “About me?”

That caught them off guard.

All eyes turned to me now.

“I wasn’t aware,” I continued calmly, “that I required vetting to sit beside my husband.”

A beat of silence.

“You’re new to this world,” one of them said carefully. “And new variables introduce risk.”

I smiled faintly. “So did Adrian once.”

Adrian stiffened beside me.

“Risk,” I added, “isn’t introduced by people. It’s introduced by fear of losing control.”

The room went still.

I could feel Adrian watching me now—not interrupting, not stopping me.

Good.

“I’m not here to dismantle anything,” I said. “I’m here because I married a man who chose me. If that unsettles you, perhaps the issue isn’t me but the fact that his choices are no longer predictable.”

One of the men frowned. “This isn’t personal.”

“It always is,” I replied softly. “You just prefer pretending it isn’t.”

The meeting ended shortly after.

Not with agreement.

But with recalibration.

As we left the boardroom, Adrian said nothing. His silence felt heavier than any argument.

In the elevator, he finally spoke. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I did,” I said. “Because they were going to speak about me either way.”

He studied my reflection in the mirrored wall. “You challenged them.”

“I reminded them,” I corrected, “that I’m not a liability they can quietly erase.”

The elevator doors opened.

We walked outside side by side but something had shifted.

Not closeness.

Recognition.

Later that afternoon, I found myself alone in the penthouse again.

The quiet felt different now. Less suffocating. More… watchful.

I poured myself tea and stood by the window, staring at the city. Somewhere out there, Lydia was recalculating. I could almost feel it.

She wouldn’t strike head-on.

She never did.

The knock at the door startled me.

Not loud. Not hesitant.

Intentional.

I opened it.

Lydia stood there.

Alone.

Perfectly composed.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said smoothly.

My heart pounded but I didn’t step back.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

She smiled. “I said the same thing about you once.”

I held my ground. “What do you want?”

She stepped inside without waiting for permission.

“I wanted to see you,” she said, glancing around. “In his space. I wondered how long it would take before you realized what standing beside him costs.”

I closed the door behind her. “I realized.”

“And?” she asked.

“And I’m still here.”

Her smile tightened.

“You think today was difficult?” Lydia said softly. “Today was restrained.”

I met her gaze. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

“No,” she replied. “It’s supposed to warn you.”

I felt something steady settle inside my chest.

“Then let me warn you too,” I said. “I won’t disappear quietly.”

Lydia’s eyes sharpened. “Good. Neither will I.”

She turned to leave, pausing at the door. “He won’t always choose you,” she said over her shoulder.

I answered without hesitation. “Then he’ll lose me.”

She laughed softly and left.

I stood there long after the door closed.

I didn’t know how this would end.

But I knew one thing now.

I wasn’t fighting to be chosen anymore.

I was deciding whether this world and this man were worth the cost.