The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. Christian stepped out into the bustling lobby, the cool, conditioned air rushing past him as he smoothed the front of his charcoal jacket. He pushed through the crowd toward the front of the room, his eyes locked on Roxanne.

Just as he neared the press circle, a reporter thrust a sleek foam-covered microphone directly toward Roxanne’s face.

"Miss Westbrook! Who is the biggest inspiration for your career?" the reporter asked, leaning in.

Christian smiled, puffing out his chest as he took another step closer. The heat of the overhead studio lights beat down on his neck, but all he could focus on was the impending victory. She is going to say my name, he thought, a surge of adrenaline making his pulse race. Say it, Roxy. Let them know.

Roxanne offered a calm smile, nodding slightly as the camera lenses focused on her. "It’s the people who believed in me long before I even thought I was worthy," she said, her voice carrying clearly over the low murmur of the room. "The people who saw my potential when I was doubting myself and selling myself short."

"People like who, exactly? Can you give us just one specific name?" the reporter pressed, sensing a story.

Christian tracked the movement of the cameras, his brows furrowing slightly as he waited for the cue. She will say my name. Who else could she possibly—?

"There are quite a lot of them, actually, and I don’t want to start singling out specific names right now," Roxanne announced smoothly, turning her attention to the next camera line.

Christian felt his insides instantly melt to ash. A cold shock of public humiliation hit him, turning his skin hot. His fists clenched tight inside his pockets, his molars gritting together so hard his jaw ached. Well, if you won’t mention me, then I will blow my own trumpet. Let’s see you try to stop me.

"My wife is talking about me, of course," Christian injected, forcing a booming, cheerful pitch into his voice as he broke through the barrier of bodies.

Roxanne’s head snapped toward him. The sudden tightening around her eyes and the sharp crease between her brows made her irritation obvious. But Christian didn’t care. He had a career to save.

"What on earth are you doing, Christian?" Roxanne murmured under her breath, her smile freezing into a rigid mask as she stared at him.

Christian turned directly toward the main lens, flashing a wide, performative wave while firmly planting his palm against the small of her waist, pulling her flush against his side. "Smile, darling. The cameras are rolling," he whispered back through a frozen grin.

Roxanne stiffened instantly, her entire body turning rigid under his touch. "Stop this nonsense right now, Chris," she hissed through clenched teeth, her hands balling into tight fists against her dress.

Christian completely ignored the warning, his eyes locked onto the red recording lights of the media cameras. "This is easily the proudest moment of my life," he declared loudly to the microphones. "To see my wife attain such a prestigious height within the firm is an incredible milestone for our family. The Westbrooks are doing great things. Very soon, I will be making my own major corporate announcement. Watch out for me."

Roxanne’s gaze instinctively darted past the flashing lights, seeking out the edge of the crowd where Richard Vance stood. Through the sea of reporters, she caught his eye. His jaw was set like granite, his dark eyes fixed on Christian’s hand around her waist with a cold, dangerous intensity.

"Miss Westbrook," another reporter called out, breaking the heavy tension and drawing her attention back to the microphone. "Do you agree with your husband’s statement?"

Roxanne wasted no time. She took a deliberate step sideways, smoothly breaking out of Christian’s tight hold. "Today is about the future of this enterprise," she said, her voice cutting through the noise. "It is not about my marriage."

The words struck Christian like a physical slap across the face, making his ears ring. He swallowed the bitter sting of the public rejection, keeping his professional smile pinned firmly in place even as his blood boiled.

Roxanne turned to walk away toward the executive exit, but Christian reached out quickly and caught her by the wrist, pinning her to the spot before she could escape the cameras.

Roxanne stopped, looking down at his fingers squeezing her skin before raising her eyes to his. "What do you think you are doing, Christian?"

"You need to take a press photo with your husband," Christian muttered under his breath, his grip tightening just enough to ensure she couldn’t pull away without a scene. "I am the most important person in your life, Roxanne. So take a picture with me first, before anyone else."

With a sharp, sudden motion, Roxanne yanked her arm completely free from his grasp. "Do not put your hands on me during a professional interview," she snapped. Her tone was quiet and entirely controlled, but it carried a razor-sharp edge that made the nearby reporters pause.

Christian opened his mouth to reassert control, but a deep, commanding voice sliced straight through the air between them.

"Miss Westbrook." Richard stepped into the frame, his tall stature immediately dominating the space. His jaw remained rigid, his eyes completely bypassing Christian as if he weren’t even there. "The executive committee is waiting."

Christian instinctively reached out to grab her elbow again, but Roxanne was already moving. She stepped into the clearing Richard had made, leaving Christian grasping at thin air. His fingers closed into an empty, useless fist. He watched her back as she walked away toward the elevators, flanked by Richard, without offering him a single backward glance.

Feeling the weight of the cameras still on him, Christian turned back to the press line, his neck flushing red as he forced his voice to remain loud and clear.

"That is my wife, everyone," Christian said, projecting across the lobby. "I want to make sure you all note that down clearly in your final reports and press releases. My name is Christian Westbrook, and her name is Roxanne Westbrook, my wife."

A senior reporter stepped forward, a skeptical look on his face. "Mr. Westbrook, to outside observers, it looks like you might have an issue with the fact that your wife has suddenly risen to the executive board of the very company you have worked at for years without a promotion. Is that the case here?"

Christian’s chest tightened. His eyes drifted over the reporter’s shoulder, catching sight of Roxanne standing near the executive elevators.

She was deep in conversation with the senior partners, her clear, melodic laughter ringing out over the ambient noise of the lobby. The photographers were still swarming around her, capturing every angle, while Richard stood firmly and protectively at her side.

I will not ruin this opportunity, Christian told himself, forcing the violent surge of jealousy back down into his chest. He turned a calm, untroubled gaze back to the reporter.

"I have never been prouder," he said, the lie tasting like bitter ash on the back of his tongue. "Not many men get to experience this kind of profound joy."

Christian’s jaw clenched one final time as he watched the elevator doors close, shutting her out of sight. In everything that had just unfolded, Roxanne hadn’t looked back at him. Not even once.

But as he turned toward the exit, a cold, calculating resolve settled into his mind. Let her have her moment, he thought. She is useful now. And if she has really become that powerful, then she is going to get me everything I want.