Damage Control

A relentless vibration against the nightstand jolted me out of a shallow, restless sleep. My hand fumbled blindly across the wood, knocking over a half-empty glass before my fingers finally curled around the phone.

The glowing screen looked like a disaster zone.

One hundred and seven missed calls. Eighty-three unread text messages. Every single notification bore Tessa's name.

I sat up in bed as the events of the previous night crashed back into my skull with brutal clarity. The press conference, Landon’s calculated slander into the microphones, the blinding flash of cameras catching my devastated expression, and Declan Brooks standing tall in my small apartment kitchen. His business card still rested on the glass coffee table where he had left it, an open invitation to chaos.

I unlocked the screen and opened the thread.

The first fifty messages were frantic variations of all-caps demands to pick up the phone immediately. The most recent text had arrived ten minutes ago.

Tessa: *Sienna Marie Cross, if you do not answer right now, I am getting in my car and breaking your front door down.*

My fingers moved across the glass keyboard.

"I am alive. Do not get in your car." I typed the response and hit send.

Three typing dots flashed across the screen within two seconds.

Tessa: *A man answered your phone at midnight. A strange man with a voice like gravel. It has been three hours. Who was that?*

Me: *Declan Brooks.*

The typing bubble vanished, reappeared, vanished again, and then exploded into rapid-fire text.

Tessa: *Declan Brooks? The Declan Brooks Landon has a literal dartboard of? The superstar who wants to crush the Dragons? Sienna, tell me you did not sleep with him.*

Me: *No. God, no.*

Tessa: *Are you sure? Because he sounded possessive and Landon is going to lose his mind.*

Me: *I did not sleep with anyone, Tess. I promise.*

Tessa: *Are you okay? What are you going to do about the conference this morning?*

I looked at the pale, grey morning light cutting through the blinds. The city outside was waking up to Landon's manufactured story, treating me like a criminal before I even set foot outside my apartment door.

"I will survive. I have to go." I sent the final text and tossed the phone onto the mattress.

A knot of sour nausea tightened in my stomach. The impending ten o'clock press conference hung over me like an execution. Beckett’s proposal echoed in my head: agree to fake-date Declan Brooks, let the media devour the scandal, and turn the tables on Landon. Half of me wanted to run, to pack a bag and vanish from Denver before Landon could humiliate me any further. The other half knew that fleeing would cement his lies as undeniable truth.

I walked to the closet and pulled out the first thing my hands found. It was an oversized grey fleece hoodie that fell past my hips. I pulled the fabric over my head, burying my shoulders in the thick cotton, and stared at my reflection in the mirror. Dark purple shadows bruised the skin beneath my eyes. My face looked pale, hollow, and worn thin from lack of sleep.

At least the disguise was accurate.

The cab ride across town to the Denver Dragons complex took thirty-nine minutes. I spent every second staring blankly out the window, watching the morning traffic crawl along the highway while trying to scrape together something resembling courage. What I found was not bravery. It was just a cold, grim necessity to see this through to the bitter end.

I stepped through the front glass doors of the facility at a quarter to nine. The energy in the lobby was frantic. PR staffers rushed between offices clutching clipboards, security guards stood in tight clusters, and whispering employees scattered as I walked past. A few people looked directly at me. One receptionist offered a tight, sympathetic nod. I kept my head lowered, buried my hands deep inside the front pocket of my hoodie, and took the stairs to the second floor.

The executive conference room sat at the end of the quiet hallway. I knocked twice, twisted the handle, and pushed the heavy door open.

Landon was already lounging at the head of the long polished table. He looked immaculate in a tailored charcoal suit jacket, an expensive ceramic mug balanced casually in his fingers, one ankle resting over his opposite knee. He wore the smug, relaxed posture of a man who had woken up believing the world belonged to him.

Paige sat in the chair beside him, dressed in a sharp beige pencil skirt, tapping her manicured nails on the wood.

Neither of them spoke when I walked into the room. I crossed the carpet and pulled out a chair on the opposite side of the table, sitting down with my spine rigid.

Landon took a slow sip of his black coffee before setting the mug down on the saucer. "You are not planning on saying anything stupid out there today, are you?"

"I am going to tell the truth." My voice came out flat and steady.

Landon tilted his chin up with a condescending chuckle. "Right. Because that strategy worked so well for you yesterday."

"You lied to the entire world about me." I stared across the table, holding his gaze without flinching.

Landon leaned forward, resting his forearms on the wood. "Did I really? Because from where the media sat, it looked like a guilty woman having a breakdown. If you go out in front of those cameras today and scream innocent, nobody will buy it. You will only dig your own grave deeper, Sienna."

"You engineered this smear campaign because I caught you red-handed. You panicked, Landon. You fabricated a vile story about me trading sexual favors because you were terrified of what would happen to your career if people found out what you did." I kept my hands flat on my thighs to prevent them from shaking.

The smugness faded from Landon’s features, replaced by a cold sneer.

Landon leaned back in his leather chair and lowered his voice to a venomous purr. "You talk tough for someone with nothing to fall back on. How is your family doing, by the way? Is your mother still grinding through three miserable jobs just to keep the lights on? Is your little brother still stuck in that cramped rat-hole apartment?"

The sheer malice in his words struck like a physical blow. The air rushed out of my lungs.

"Do not talk about my family." I warned him through clenched teeth.

Landon tilted his head, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. "It must have been agonizing. Growing up poor, watching everyone around you have the things you could never afford. I actually understand why you tried so hard to climb the ladder by any means necessary. When you come from the dirt, you stay desperate."

The low blow pierced straight through my defenses. A burning ache flared behind my eyelids, and before I could stop them, two hot tears spilled over my lashes and tracked down my cheeks. I snapped my hands up to wipe my face, but it was too late.

Landon caught the wetness on my skin, and his lips twisted into a triumphant smirk.

The conference room door swung wide with a sudden click.

Declan Brooks strode into the room.

His massive frame filled the doorway, his broad shoulders cutting an imposing silhouette against the hallway light. Within a fraction of a second, his dark eyes assessed the scene. He saw the wet tracks on my cheeks and the smug grin plastered across Landon’s face.

A lethal stillness settled over Declan’s expression. It was far quieter than open rage, a terrifying calm that made the air in the room drop several degrees.

Declan walked straight to the table, pulled out the chair directly adjacent to mine, and sat down. His broad back cut off my view of Paige.

"What did you say to her?" Declan asked in a low, level tone.

Landon shifted in his chair, attempting to recover his careless posture. "We were just having a private conversation."

"About what?" Declan did not blink.

Landon offered a tight, dismissive smirk. "Old times. You know how things go between former flames."

Declan leaned forward, resting his large forearms on the dark wood. "I do not know, actually. Say it again."

Landon blinked, his smirk faltering under the heavy weight of Declan's unyielding stare. "Excuse me?"

"Whatever you just said to make her cry. Repeat it right now. In front of me." Declan’s voice remained dead, flat, and hard as granite.

Silence fell over the room like lead.

Landon’s eyes flicked to me, then back to Declan, searching for an angle of retreat. "I do not know what kind of sob story she sold you—"

Declan cut him off without raising his voice. "She did not say a word. I walked through the door. I saw her tears, and now I am looking at your smug face. So say the words again, Landon. Unless you lack the balls to repeat them to another man."

Landon froze. His jaw tightened until a muscle jumped beneath his cheek, but his throat bobbed in an uneasy swallow. He shrank back into his seat, closing his mouth and dropping his eyes toward his coffee mug under Declan's unblinking stare.

Declan held the silence for three long beats before severing the connection. He turned his shoulder on Landon, dismissing him as though he were nothing more than dust on the table.

He looked directly at me. The harsh edge in his sharp jaw softened, his voice dropping into a quiet cadence meant only for my ears.

"Are you alright?" Declan asked quietly.

The question held no performance. It was simple, grounded, and steady.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, wiped the dampness from my cheek, and nodded.

Declan held my gaze for a moment, offering a slight nod in return.

Declan projected his deep voice across the polished wood. "I had a remarkably good night last night, Landon."

Paige gasped softly, her eyes widening in shock. Landon’s fingers curled into tight fists around his napkin, his knuckles turning stark white.

Declan pulled his phone from his pocket and set it down on the table, leaning back with effortless dominance.

The double doors burst open before Landon could find his voice.

A sudden wave of early-access journalists, reporters, and camera operators flooded into the conference room. Lanyards swung from their necks, notebooks were flipped open, and heavy DSLR cameras hung from their shoulders. The group halted abruptly three steps past the threshold, freezing in collective disbelief at the sight of the four of us sitting together.

The room went dead silent for two frantic seconds.

Then Declan moved.

Without a word of warning, without asking for permission, and without a second of hesitation, he turned toward me.

His large, calloused hand came up to cradle the side of my jaw. His thumb pressed firmly against the curve of my cheekbone, tilting my face upward.

Then he leaned in and pressed his lips firmly against mine.

The kiss was unhurried, calm, and thick with possessive authority. It was not a tentative peck or a polite stage gesture; it was deep, deliberate, and commanding. He tasted of mint and dark coffee, his mouth claiming mine right in front of Landon, right beneath Paige’s horrified glare, and directly in the crosshairs of three stunned journalists.

A camera shutter fired. Then another. Then the entire doorway erupted into a blinding frenzy of flashing lights and rapid-fire clicks.

Declan did not rush. He took his time, holding my mouth with heavy, unyielding intent until my head spun.

When he finally broke the contact, he pulled back only an inch, his dark eyes locked onto mine.

"Sisi, what the fuck?" Landon’s enraged roar shattered the media buzz, his voice tight, incredulous, and shaking with disbelief.

Declan did not even spare Landon a glance. The chaotic room ceased to exist around us. With maddening composure, Declan brought his thumb down, slowly tracing the swollen contour of my lower lip.

He leaned closer, his deep voice dropping into an electrifying whisper against my mouth. "You're wet, Sisi."