He Wants An Open Marriage? Done!

The sleek glass facade of Vance Enterprises loomed overhead in the daylight.

Roxanne killed the engine.

Outside her windshield, a sea of reporters surged against the barricades like wolves.

She let out a long breath, fogging the glass for a split second. "Cara, you are not winning this," she whispered, her fingers tightening around the steering wheel until her knuckles turned pale. "Not on your life."

She pushed the door open, the low hum of traffic instantly replaced by the roar of the crowd. Smoothing the lapels of her jacket, she stepped into the fray. Her heels clicked a steady rhythm against the pavement, a mask of control, even as her pulse slammed against her ribs like a trapped bird.

"There she is!" someone yelled, pointing.

Her heart skipped a beat, but her expression didn’t flicker. She kept her chin high as the press surged forward, camera lenses flashing and boom mics swinging toward her face like pendulums.

"Have you seen the news, Miss Ashwood?" A reporter thrust a mic into her face, her eyes gleaming with hunger. "What do you say about Cara’s claims? She says you were just a distraction while they prepared to announce the pregnancy!"

"Did Mr. Vance use you? Is he abandoning you for his fiancée?"

The words hit her like physical blows, sharp and relentless.

But Roxanne didn’t break stride. Instinctively, she shifted her leather bag to the front, crossing her arms over it to shelter her stomach, protecting the fragile life growing inside her from the noise and venom.

In her palm, her phone vibrated, buzzing with insistence. She looked at it. Richard.

She glanced up briefly. High above, framed against the smoked glass of the top floor, a silhouette stood watching. She looked away. She was not going to let him talk her out of this.

The glass entrance doors burst open suddenly, and Richard’s private security detail spilled out, forming a wall of muscle and suits that carved a path through the media mob.

"Will you remain silent while your integrity is torn apart?" the reporter shouted, trailing her into the cleared aisle. "You two looked intimate in that leaked video. Anyone would be furious if they were just being used!"

Roxanne stopped. She turned, letting her gaze fall on the reporter.

The silence that followed was total. The crowd held its breath, waiting for the meltdown. Roxanne simply offered a slow smile that didn’t reach her eyes, turned her back, and walked through the doors.

"Roxanne! Say something!"

The glass doors slid shut, cutting the chaotic roar off in an instant.

Inside, the air chilled the sweat at the nape of her neck, but the heat of a dozen staring eyes made her skin prickle.

Staff members hovered in whispers near the desk, their gazes heavy with pity. Some shook their heads as she passed. She ignored them all, keeping her eyes fixed ahead.

Then she caught the TV mounted near the elevators. Her own face flashed on screen, flanked by Richard’s and Cara’s portraits.

"...hours since the story broke, yet neither Richard Vance nor Roxanne Ashwood have released a statement. Speculation is mounting over whether Cara’s pregnancy claims are true, or if Vance’s silence points to a split within—"

Roxanne forced another calm smile onto her lips, stepping into the waiting elevator.

The moment the doors swooshed shut, isolating her in mirrored chrome, the smile died. She collapsed back against the wall, her mind racing. Lifting a trembling hand, she pressed it against her lower abdomen.

"I won’t let them harm you," she breathed into the quiet space.

She pulled herself upright, watching the digital floor numbers count up. 7... 8... 9. Then the elevator bell chimed.

The doors parted, and Richard was right there, leaning heavily against the corridor wall as if he’d been pacing. The moment he saw her, he straightened and closed the distance between them.

His hands came up to grasp her shoulders, his touch warm and grounded. His dark eyes searched hers, tight with frustration and fear. "I called you six times."

The heat of his palm sank through her jacket, but Roxanne set her jaw, stepping back just enough to break his hold.

"First of all," she said, her voice dropping into a quiet register, "I’m furious that you heard this news and didn’t have the decency to tell me yourself. I’m disappointed, Richard."

"Roxanne, listen to me—"

"Second," she cut in, her tone sharp as a razor. "How could you tell John to keep me away at home? My house is on fire, and you expect me to sit back and watch it burn?"

Richard dropped his hands, his shoulders sagging slightly. The subtle crack in his armor only made her chest feel tighter. "I didn’t mean to make you feel sidelined. I just wanted to spare you the stress. I’m already handling it."

"Handling it how?" She searched his face, catching the fleeting twitch toward the end of the hall. He was hiding something.

"Listen, Rox—"

She didn’t wait. She brushed past him, her heels clicking down the carpeted hallway toward his office.

"Roxanne, please! Let me handle this!" he called, hurrying after her.

She didn’t answer. She grabbed the metal handle, shoved the door open, and stepped inside. And she froze.

A man and woman sat in the leather armchairs, his PR Director and Head of Legal, both surrounded by reams of documents.

"What is she doing here?" A metallic voice crackled through the room’s conference speaker.

Roxanne turned toward the wall monitor, and Margaret’s face glared back at her, flanked by two corporate attorneys on a live link.

The air in the room felt suddenly thin.

Roxanne swallowed the lump in her throat. "I see," she whispered.

Richard caught up to her in the doorway, his lips parting to speak, but she didn’t give him the chance. She walked straight to the main conference chair, pulled it out, and sat down.

"Please," Roxanne said, sweeping her gaze across the room, her voice laced with iron. "Carry on."

Richard stepped close, leaning down toward her. "Roxanne, you can’t be in here for this—"

She swung her head around, her eyes pinning him in place. "If you think for one second I’m going to sit back and let a room full of suits make decisions about my life," she said, each word dripping with authority, "you are sorely mistaken."

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