Updated Nov 25, 2025 • ~7 min read
Three days hiding in Atkins’ apartment. Three days of planning, strategizing, preparing for war.
And somewhere between plotting corporate takedowns and dodging assassination attempts, something shifted.
No cameras. No production crews. No audience.
Just us. Real. Unfiltered. Actually building something.
“This is nice,” Leander said one night. We sat on Atkins’ tiny balcony, sharing cheap wine and expensive problems.
“Nice? We’re hiding from corporate assassins.”
“I know. But we’re doing it together. Without performance. Just… us.”
“You prefer attempted murder to reality TV?”
“I prefer honesty to cameras. Even if the honesty includes people trying to kill me.”
I laughed despite everything. “You’re insane.”
“Probably. But you love me anyway.”
“Unfortunately.”
He kissed me. Soft. Sweet. Nothing like the passionate kisses for cameras or the desperate ones during crises.
This was different. Quieter. More real.
When we broke apart, I said, “That was our first real kiss.”
“We’ve kissed dozens of times.”
“For cameras. For show. For drama. But that one? That was just because you wanted to. Not because anyone was watching.”
“You’re right.” He tucked hair behind my ear. “I’ve been performing so long, I forgot what real felt like. Thank you for reminding me.”
“What does real feel like?”
“Terrifying. Vulnerable. Worth it.”
We sat in comfortable silence. Chicago spreading below us, indifferent to our drama.
“The vote is tomorrow,” Leander said. “Whatever happens, I need you to know—you choosing me back means everything. Even if I lose the company, I didn’t lose what matters.”
“You’re not losing the company. We have a plan.”
“A plan that depends on Bradford Alford’s son confessing to attempted murder and revealing the whole conspiracy. That’s optimistic even for you.”
“Trust me.”
“I do. That’s the terrifying part.”
The next morning, we executed phase one.
I’d been secretly filming everything. The assassination attempt. Police reports. Financial evidence of the takeover conspiracy. All documented.
Now we were going public.
Helena Drake published it first. Chicago Tribune. Front page.
“Corporate Coup Attempt Includes Assassination: CorkTech CEO Targeted Before Crucial Vote”
The response was immediate. Outrage. Investigations launched. FBI involvement.
And the shareholder vote? Postponed indefinitely pending investigation.
“It worked,” Leander said, reading updates. “They can’t vote while under FBI investigation.”
“Phase one complete. Now phase two.”
Phase two was riskier. Confronting Bradford Alford directly.
We arranged a meeting. Neutral location. My cameras rolling.
Bradford arrived looking furious.
“You think you’re clever,” he said. “Publishing lies. Accusing my son.”
“We didn’t accuse. We reported facts. Your son tried to kill Leander. We have evidence.”
“Circumstantial evidence. Nothing that proves coordination.”
“Actually,” Leander said, “we have more than that. Your son’s been talking. Prosecutor offered him a deal. He gave up everything. The planning. The payments. Your direct involvement.”
Bradford’s face went ashen. “That’s impossible.”
“It’s recorded testimony. FBI has it. Along with financial records showing you paid him fifty thousand to ‘handle the Leander problem.’ Your words, his testimony.”
“You can’t prove—”
“We already did. The question now is whether you take a deal or go down with the ship.”
Long silence. Bradford calculating odds.
“What kind of deal?”
“Drop the takeover attempt. Sell your shares back to Leander at fair market value. Publicly apologize for the assassination attempt. Do that and we don’t pursue additional charges beyond what the FBI already has on your son.”
“That’s extortion.”
“That’s negotiation. Same as you’ve been doing, just with fewer murder attempts.”
Bradford looked at me. At Leander. At the impossible situation he’d created.
“Fine. I’ll take the deal. But Leander?” He stood. “You’ve made powerful enemies. This won’t be the last time someone tries to take you down.”
“Then I’ll keep fighting. With her.” Leander took my hand. “I’ve learned something these past months. Companies are replaceable. People aren’t. I spent too long prioritizing the wrong things. Never again.”
After Bradford left, Leander pulled me close.
“We did it. Saved the company. Exposed the conspiracy. Won.”
“We survived. There’s a difference.”
“Is there? Because from where I’m standing, surviving together looks a lot like winning.”
That night, we returned to the penthouse. Our penthouse. Reclaimed.
“It feels different,” I said, looking around.
“Because it is. Before, this was my space you occupied. Now it’s ours.”
“When did that happen?”
“Somewhere between attempted murder and cheap wine on Atkins’ balcony. We stopped performing and started living.”
He pulled me to the bedroom. Our bedroom now.
“I need to tell you something,” he said. “Something I should’ve said weeks ago without cameras or crisis forcing it.”
“Okay.”
“I love you. Not because you’re convenient. Not because you saved my company. Not because the story is compelling. Just because you’re you. Stubborn. Brilliant. Willing to crash weddings and corporate conspiracies with equal enthusiasm.”
“That’s the most you thing you’ve ever said about me.”
“Is that good?”
“It’s perfect.”
I kissed him. Really kissed him. Not for cameras. Not for show. Just because I wanted to.
And this time, when we fell into bed, there was no contract. No performance. No audience.
Just us. Real. Honest. Together.
After, lying in tangled sheets, he said, “We should get married.”
“We’re already engaged.”
“For real though. Not reality TV engaged. Actually married. Small ceremony. No cameras. Just people who matter.”
“When?”
“Soon. Next month. Tomorrow. I don’t care. I just want you to be my wife for real. Not for show.”
“Tomorrow seems fast.”
“We’ve been fake engaged for three months and real engaged for one. That’s practically a lifetime in our timeline.”
“Fair point. But I want Paisley there. My sister. We need to fix that relationship first.”
“Then we fix it. Together. Whatever it takes.”
I curled into him. Safe. Loved. Actually believed in.
“How did we get here?” I asked. “From wedding crasher and accidental assault victim to this?”
“Carefully. Chaotically. Completely against all logic.”
“Best love story ever.”
“Or worst. Depending on perspective.”
“I’m going with best.”
“Me too.”
We fell asleep tangled together. No cameras. No pressure. Just us and the quiet certainty that we’d found something real in the midst of manufactured chaos.
The next morning, I woke before him. Watched him sleep. This man who’d chosen me over billions. Who’d fought for us when it would’ve been easier to walk away.
My phone buzzed. Paisley.
I saw the news. About the assassination attempt. About everything. Are you okay?
My sister. Finally reaching out after months of silence.
I’m okay. We’re okay. Can we talk?
Yes. Please. Coffee tomorrow?
I’d like that.
I set down the phone. Felt something shift. Healing. Possibility.
Leander stirred. Opened his eyes. Smiled when he saw me.
“Morning.”
“Morning. Paisley wants to have coffee. She reached out.”
“That’s good.”
“She might hate you. For everything.”
“Then I’ll win her over. Or at least apologize impressively. I’m good at apologies now. You’ve trained me well.”
“I’ve trained you to admit when you’re wrong. That’s different from apologies.”
“Semantics.”
We had breakfast. Made plans. Existed in beautiful boring domesticity.
This was what we’d been fighting for. Not grand gestures. Not dramatic confrontations. Just quiet mornings and shared coffee and the certainty that we’d chosen each other.
For real this time.
No cameras. No contracts. No performance.
Just love.
Messy. Complicated. Absolutely real.
And worth every lie we’d told to get here.
Because the truth we’d found?
That was the best plot twist of all.
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