Chapter Seventy-Seven: The Stampede

The Van Alston building lobby felt like a war zone.

I stepped out of the elevator with Jules flanking me, both of us trying to look calm despite the chaos erupting around us. Reporters had somehow gotten past building security and were packed into the marble space like vultures fighting over a carcass. The moment they spotted me, the noise level went from loud to deafening.

"Ms. Blackwood! Is it true you've been receiving psychiatric treatment?"

"Scarlett! How do you respond to allegations that you're unfit to run Van Alston Industries?"

"Are you planning to step down from your position?"

The questions came from all directions, overlapping and aggressive. Camera flashes went off like strobe lights, making my vision blur. I could feel my heart rate spiking, that familiar panic starting to claw at the edges of my consciousness.

"Keep walking," Jules murmured beside me, her hand on my elbow. "Don't stop, don't engage."

But they weren't interested in letting me walk. The crowd surged forward as we tried to move toward the exit, and suddenly I couldn't see a clear path anywhere. Bodies pressed in from all sides, microphones shoved toward my face, cameras clicking and whirring.

"Is your marriage to Dominic Blackwood a business arrangement?"

"How do you respond to reports that you threatened board members?"

"Are you pregnant? Is that why you rushed into marriage?"

That last question hit me like a physical blow. My hand instinctively moved to my stomach, where my bump was just starting to show under the loose blazer I'd chosen specifically to hide it. They knew. Somehow, they fucking knew about the baby.

"No comment," I said, trying to push through the wall of reporters. But there were too many of them, and they weren't backing down.

"Sources say you've been exhibiting erratic behavior since taking control of the company."

"Is it true you fired three department heads in a single day?"

"What's your response to allegations that you're suffering from post-traumatic stress?"

The questions kept coming, each one more invasive than the last. I felt trapped, suffocated by the press of bodies and the constant barrage of camera flashes. My breathing was getting shallow, that old familiar panic starting to take hold.

"Back off," Jules said loudly, her voice cutting through the noise. "Give her some space."

But they didn't back off. If anything, they pressed closer, sensing weakness like sharks smelling blood in the water.

"Scarlett, is it true your grandmother is concerned about your mental state?"

"Are you planning to sell Van Alston Industries?"

"How do you respond to reports that you've been making death threats against former business associates?"

That was when things went from bad to dangerous.

One reporter, a thin man with hungry eyes and a cheap suit, pushed forward aggressively, shoving his recorder toward my face. "Ms. Blackwood, sources close to the family say you've been having violent episodes. Care to comment?"

"Get that thing out of my face," I said, trying to step back.

But there was nowhere to go. Another reporter had moved behind me, cutting off my retreat. I was surrounded, trapped in a circle of aggressive journalists who seemed more interested in creating a spectacle than getting actual answers.

"Is it true you attacked a board member during a meeting?"

"Have you ever been committed to a psychiatric facility?"

"Are you currently taking medication for mental illness?"

The questions were getting more personal, more invasive. I could feel my control slipping, that familiar rage starting to build in my chest. These people weren't journalists. They were predators, feeding off my discomfort and fear.

"That's enough," Jules said, her voice deadly calm. She moved to position herself between me and the most aggressive reporters. "This interview is over."

"We're not conducting an interview," the thin reporter said with a nasty smile. "We're just asking questions in a public space."

"Well, stop asking them," Jules shot back.

"Freedom of the press," another reporter called out. "She's a public figure now. She doesn't get privacy."

The crowd pressed closer, and I felt someone's elbow dig into my ribs. My hand went to my stomach protectively, terror shooting through me as I realized how dangerous this situation was becoming. These people didn't care that I was pregnant. They didn't care about anything except getting their story.

"Please," I said, my voice barely audible over the chaos. "I need to get through."

But my plea only seemed to encourage them. Camera flashes went off faster, questions came louder and more aggressively.

"Is your husband aware of your psychological issues?"

"How much medication are you currently taking?"

"Are you planning to seek professional help?"

The thin reporter pushed forward again, this time actually grabbing my arm. "Just answer one question, Scarlett. Are you mentally stable enough to run a billion-dollar company?"

That was when Jules snapped.

"Don't fucking touch her," she snarled, grabbing the reporter's wrist and twisting until he let go of my arm. But her movement created a gap in our defensive position, and the crowd immediately surged forward to fill it.

Bodies pressed against me from all sides. Someone stepped on my foot, someone else's shoulder hit my face. I could smell sweat and desperation and that particular stale scent of people who'd been camping out for hours waiting for a story.

"I can't breathe," I gasped, but no one was listening.

The crowd had taken on a life of its own, pushing and shoving as everyone tried to get closer, to get the perfect shot, to ask the question that would make their career. I was being crushed in the middle of it, my pregnant belly pressed against someone's briefcase, someone else's knee digging into my back.

"Move!" Jules shouted, but her voice was lost in the chaos.

I felt someone grab my hair, yanking my head back so a camera could get a better angle of my face. Another hand grabbed my jacket, pulling me in a different direction. I was being torn apart by a mob of people who saw me as nothing more than a paycheck.

Terror flooded my system as I realized I was about to fall. If I went down in this crowd, I'd be trampled. The baby would be hurt. I could die right here in the lobby of my own fucking building.

"Help," I whispered, but the word was lost in the noise.

That was when I heard Jules scream.

I turned toward the sound and saw her on the ground, blood streaming from a cut on her forehead where someone had hit her with a camera. She was trying to get back up, but the crowd was too thick, too chaotic.

"Jules!" I tried to move toward her, but there were too many bodies in the way.

The crowd had completely lost control now. Reporters were fighting each other for position, shoving and pushing without any regard for safety. Someone's microphone hit me in the face, splitting my lip. Another person's bag caught my stomach, making me double over in pain.

I was going to lose the baby. Right here, right now, because of these fucking vultures who cared more about a story than human life.

That was when the cavalry arrived.

The lobby doors burst open and Dominic strode in, followed by what looked like an entire army of Titan Security personnel. They moved through the crowd like a force of nature, creating space where none had existed, pushing back reporters with the kind of calm, professional efficiency that spoke of serious training.

"Enough," Dominic's voice cut through the chaos like a blade. He didn't shout, but somehow everyone heard him anyway.