CHAPTER 33

THE WOMAN BEHIND VANDELL'S EMPIRE...

The first sign of trouble came with the smell of coffee.

Abigail was curled on the sofa in the living room, blanket around her shoulders, flipping absently through one of Luke’s business magazines. The morning sun was slanting through the tall windows when the sound of Luke’s phone rang in the kitchen.

She wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but his voice was impossible to ignore low, clipped, and colder than the marble counters.

“Pull it down,” he said sharply. “I don’t care if it’s already circulating make them take it off their front page. And tell them if they value their next contract with me, they’ll find something else to print.”

A pause. Then: “Do it now.”

When he came into the living room, mug in hand, she was already watching him.

“Do I want to know?” she asked.

He hesitated, then passed her the phone. The screen showed an online article with a glossy picture from the gala, Luke standing with one hand at her back, both of them in mid-smile.

The headline read: Vandell’s New Wife Steals Spotlight at Annual Gala But Is She a Good Fit for the Empire?

Her eyebrows rose. “Well. That’s subtle.”

Luke’s jaw tightened. “They’re questioning your place before you’ve even had the chance to settle in. They’re not going to do it again.”

Abigail scrolled. The piece wasn’t outright hostile, but it was laced with innuendo questions about her background, speculation about how quickly the marriage had happened, comparisons to Luke’s past relationships.

She set the phone down. “It’s not that bad.”

“It’s unacceptable,” he countered, his voice still sharp. “They don’t get to talk about you like you’re some… experiment.”

“I’m fine, Luke,” she said quietly. “Really.”

His gaze held hers for a long moment before he looked away, taking a sip of coffee like it might help him swallow his temper.

By midday, the calls started. Friends, colleagues, even a few distant relatives she hadn’t heard from in years. Each one wanted to “check in,” which was polite code for “ask if the article is true.”

Luke moved through the house like a storm making phone calls, sending emails, his voice calm but edged with steel. She could tell he was already arranging quiet threats behind the scenes.

By evening, she’d had enough.

“Luke,” she said, finding him in his office, leaning over his desk. “You can’t fight every battle for me.”

He didn’t look up. “I can fight the ones that matter.”

“This one doesn’t,” she insisted. “It’s words. People will talk. They’ve been talking since the wedding. You can’t keep trying to erase it all.”

His hands flattened on the desk. “You think I’m going to let them tear you apart while I sit here doing nothing?”

“I think you married someone who can handle herself,” she said, stepping closer. “If you keep shielding me from every ugly thing, I’ll never get the chance to prove that.”

That finally made him look at her really look at her. His eyes softened, but the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease.

The next day, she decided to handle it her way.

She called the journalist who’d written the piece. When the woman answered, Abigail’s voice was calm, polite but each word was deliberate.

“I’d like to clarify a few things,” she said. “If you’re going to write about me, at least make sure you get it right.”

The conversation lasted fifteen minutes. By the end of it, the journalist had agreed to run a follow-up column, one that included Abigail’s own words and reframed the story in a way that hinted at quiet authority instead of passive gossip.

When she told Luke, he stared at her for a long moment before leaning back in his chair. “You called her.”

“I did.”

“And you didn’t tell me.”

“You’d have stopped me.”

His lips twitched almost a smile, but not quite. “You’re infuriating.”

“And you love it,” she said.

Two days later, the follow-up piece ran. The photo they used was from the dance floor, Luke’s hand at her waist, both of them mid-laugh. The headline read: Abigail Vandell, The Woman Behind Vandell’s Empire.

It was still publicity, but it was warmer. Respectful, even.

Luke didn’t say “I told you so,” but the way he watched her over dinner that night said everything.

The following week, he asked her to join him at the company again this time for a quarterly strategy meeting.

“I thought those were closed-door,” she said.

“They are,” he replied. “You’re an exception.”

When they arrived, the receptionists straightened immediately, murmuring polite greetings. The whispers started again almost at once, but they were different this time less cutting, more curious.

Inside the conference room, Luke introduced her without flourish. “My wife will be sitting in today.”

There was a ripple of acknowledgment around the table. She caught snippets of exchanged glances, but no one said anything out loud.

She didn’t speak during the meeting she didn’t need to. She simply sat beside him, listening, watching, learning the rhythm of the room.

Afterward, in the elevator, Luke looked down at her. “You handled that better than some of my executives.”

“I was just sitting there.”

“That’s exactly why,” he said. “You didn’t try to prove anything. You didn’t have to.”

For the rest of the ride, they stood in comfortable silence, his hand warm against hers.

That night, as they settled into bed, she found herself thinking about how much had shifted in just a week. The whispers hadn’t stopped but she no longer felt like they were about whether she belonged.

They were about how she did.

And Luke, for all his protective instincts, seemed to be starting to believe she could hold her ground beside him without needing him to build walls around her.

She turned to him in the dim light. “You’re still going to try to protect me, aren’t you?”

“Always,” he said simply. “But maybe I’ll let you take the lead… sometimes.”

She smiled, leaning in to kiss him. “I’ll take that.”