The Gossips
ARIANA'S POV
The tablet trembled in Joan’s hand as she passed it to me, her face pale, her lips pressed into a thin, nervous line.
"You need to see this. Right now," she said again, and the chill in her voice cut through the calm I was pretending to wear.
I took the tablet with stiff fingers.
My pulse thudded in my ears as I stared at the screen.
The first headline screamed at me:
"Hardin Richards Seen Kissing Ariana Miller – Love or Corporate Power Play?"
Right beneath it was the photo.
From last night when Hardin had kissed me. The way he held my waist, the way he was so close to me there was no space between us. It was perfect, everything looked magical but now this.
Now it was on full display.
Below it, smaller headlines screamed louder:
"Ariana Miller Using Romance to Gain Leverage in Richards Corp?"
"Enemies in Business, Lovers in Bed? The Truth Behind the Miller-Richards Affair."
"Sources Say Veronica Richards Is Furious Over Her Son's Relationship with a Miller."
I scrolled. More garbage.
Speculation. Conspiracy.
"Could this be the end of a decades-long rivalry? Or a dangerous merger cloaked in desire?"
"Ariana Miller: Ruthless, Ambitious, and Now a Richards by Default?"
"Richards and Millers: A Marriage or a Meltdown in the Making?"
"What..." I breathed, the word barely escaping.
I kept scrolling, my hands clammy. Each headline felt like a slap. Each comment beneath the articles a dagger.
"She looks cold. Like she’d eat her assistant for breakfast."
"Watch her climb to the top using her last name and what's between her legs."
"Hardin deserves better. Someone pure. Not a Miller."
"If this is love, it's the most strategic one I've ever seen."
I stopped reading.
I couldn’t breathe.
This wasn’t just a scandal.
This was war.
I shut the tablet and handed it back to Joan with a blank expression that I hoped looked stronger than I felt.
"Handle it," I said quietly.
She nodded, her gaze sympathetic but professional. "I’ll call PR. Damage control, ASAP."
She left, closing the door softly behind her.
The silence hit me like a wave.
I leaned back in my chair, closing my eyes.
This couldn’t be a coincidence. Someone wanted this out. Wanted it now. Wanted it loud.
I thought of Veronica Richards.
Could she have done this?
Would she?
A part of me wanted to believe she wouldn’t stoop so low.
But another part, the part that remembered her ice-cold smile and her promise to ruin me, whispered: She already has.
My fingers dug into the armrest.
She said she'd stop us.
This... this was a surgical strike. Public, humiliating, designed to sow doubt. If she didn’t do it herself, she sure as hell planted the idea in the right ear.
And the timing? Right after last night? Too perfect.
I hated it.
Not because of the headlines. I’d survived worse. I had armor built from years of fighting to be taken seriously in a world that only saw my last name.
No.
I hated it because they were tainting something sacred. They were twisting a moment between Hardin and me into something calculated, ugly.
As if love was just a weapon.
As if I was just a weapon.
My stomach twisted.
I pushed to my feet and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out at the skyline like it held answers.
The air in the office felt too still. Like the breath before a storm.
My reflection stared back at me in the glass—composed, polished, unreadable.
But inside, I was cracking.
This felt too big. Too targeted.
It felt like the air had thickened, pressing down on my lungs with invisible weight.
I turned from the window, running a hand through my hair, fingers trembling slightly before I forced them to still. I couldn’t afford to shake now. Not with eyes watching. Even if I was alone, I wasn’t really. This office—my sanctuary and battleground—had ears, memories, and secrets.
The headlines still clawed at my mind. Each one slicing away at the fragile boundary between my public armor and private heart. I wasn’t new to scrutiny. I’d had to smile through boardroom insults disguised as compliments, maneuver around power-hungry executives eager to see me fail, and prove my worth a thousand times over.
But this?
This was different.
They weren’t coming for my business.
They were coming for me.
For what I felt.
For the small, tender, terrifying truth that had been blooming in the quiet corners of my chest when no one was looking.
They turned it into ammunition.
And I hated how effective it was.
The knock came soft—three gentle taps, each one snapping me back into place.
"Come in," I said, my voice stronger than I felt.
Joan stepped in, tablet still in hand, but this time her expression was steadier. Her spine straight, her heels crisp against the polished floor. She was back in full executive mode, and for that, I was grateful.
“We’ve handled it,” she said.
I raised an eyebrow. “Handled how?”
“All the articles from the original source—Insider Pulse—have been taken down. We traced the source back to an anonymous contributor account. It’s been suspended pending investigation. Our PR team issued a formal statement—neutral tone. You’re unavailable for comment. Hardin Richards is unavailable for comment. Legal notices are being drafted for speculative pieces.”
I nodded, absorbing it all.
“And the pictures?” I asked.
“Scrubbed. Every major outlet has been warned. Some blogs and gossip pages might repost, but our copyright claim covers the image. Anyone who shares it risks a takedown or fine.”
My shoulders eased slightly. Only slightly.
Joan hesitated by the door. “We’re watching everything,” she added. “Social media, corporate chatter, internal leaks. I’ll stay on top of it.”
She turned to go.
But then she paused.
Looked back.
And for the first time since walking in, she said my name.
“Miss Miller?”
I blinked, surprised by the softness in her voice.
“Yes?”
“You’ll get through this,” she said simply. “You always do.”
A lump caught in my throat, but I smiled and gave her a small nod. “Thank you.”
Joan held my gaze for a second longer, then walked out, closing the door behind her with the quiet click of someone who knew how to leave without making an exit.
And just like that, I was alone again.
I exhaled. Long. Slow. Measured.
But it didn’t help.
Because beneath the silence… something stirred.
Not just tension. Not just nerves.
A storm.
I could feel it coming.
Not just in the PR fallout or the corporate gossip I knew would swirl like sharks in bloodied water. No. Something bigger. Deeper. Like the ground beneath me had started to shift, and soon, cracks would appear.
I couldn’t shake the feeling.
A storm was coming.
And no matter how steady I stood, it might still sweep us apart.
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