"They are here." The words hung in the chilled air of the suite. Alia did not wait for his reaction. She rolled off the edge of the mattress, her bare feet hitting the freezing marble floor.

She sprinted toward the bathroom, grabbing a thick white bathrobe off the rack and pulling it tightly around her shoulders to block out the biting air conditioning.

She turned the solid brass faucet. Freezing water gushed into the porcelain sink. Alia cupped her hands, splashing the icy liquid directly onto her face. The shock traveled down her spine, forcing her chaotic nervous system to stabilize.

She lifted her head, water dripping from her chin. The girl staring back at her in the mirror no longer had the naive, terrified eyes of a victim. Her gaze was sharp, predatory—resembling a wolf cornered in the snow.

Her brain calculated the timeline with terrifying precision. Today was the day Gaylen bought off the media. Cherri was leading the paparazzi straight to this door. Five years ago, she had run out of this room in a panic, her clothes torn, blinded by camera flashes—cementing her status as the laughingstock of New York high society.

The bathroom door was shoved open with violent force. Ansel stood in the doorway, his chest bare, his defined muscles tense and coiled. His face was a mask of dark fury.

He stepped inside, his large frame making the spacious bathroom feel suffocatingly small. He backed Alia against the edge of the marble vanity, leaving her nowhere to run.

His long fingers reached out, gripping her chin and forcing her to look up at him. The pressure was firm, bordering on painful.

"So, did I make you feel wronged by being with me?" The man frowned, a hint of fierceness in his expression."Do you like him so much?"

Alia stared up at him. She did not cry. She did not struggle. She looked straight into his dark eyes, tracing the rigid tension in his sharp jawline and feeling the faint, almost imperceptible tremor in his fingertips as he held her chin. From these microscopic fractures in his armor, she finally read the profound, desperate emotion he tried so hard to hide behind his aggression—like a dying, cornered beast fighting for its last breath.

She raised her freezing hand and placed it gently over the back of his hand holding her chin. She felt the muscles in his forearm twitch and lock.

"I do not feel wronged," Alia said, her voice clear and steady. "I just think we should not give them a free show."

Ansel's pupils contracted sharply. He stared at the girl in front of him, completely thrown off balance by her terrifying calm. He searched her face for any sign of deceit, his thumb rubbing over his index finger knuckle in a repetitive, anxious motion.

Alia pushed his hand away. She turned around, pulling open the drawer of the vanity. She dug through the complimentary toiletries and pulled out a small eyebrow razor. The tiny blade caught the harsh bathroom light.

Ansel's eyes narrowed. Thinking she was about to harm herself in despair, he lunged forward, his hand clamping down on her wrist with bone-crushing force.

Alia winced, a sharp pain shooting up her arm, but she kept her eyes locked on his. "Let go. The reporters outside will break down that door in exactly three minutes. Do you want to be on the front page of every gossip rag with me?"

Ansel caught the word reporters. Years of surviving the cutthroat environment of Wall Street kicked in. The haze of anger vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating realization. He knew a setup when he heard one.

He released her wrist, his expression turning murderous. "Gaylen did this?"

"Who else but him and my dear stepsister," Alia sneered.

She walked past him, heading back into the messy bedroom. She picked up his discarded silk tie and his heavy platinum watch from the floor, shoving them deep under the pillows.

Ansel leaned against the bathroom doorframe, watching her erase his presence with practiced efficiency. A bitter, suffocating weight settled in his chest.

"Are you in such a hurry to distance yourself from me?" Ansel's voice was dangerously quiet—a predator preparing to strike.

Alia stopped moving. She turned to face him, her index finger tapping against her thigh in a rapid rhythm.

"Ansel, I am protecting you. The heir to the Vanderbilt empire cannot be dragged into this kind of cheap scandal."

Hearing her use his first name, hearing her prioritize his reputation, extinguished half the rage burning in his veins. He looked at her, a profound sense of curiosity replacing his anger.

Alia did not have time to explain. She scooped her phone off the carpet. The screen was lit up with fifteen missed calls from Cherri.

She ignored them and dialed a heavily encrypted number. Thank God that in her past life, she and Caitlyn had joined that ultra-exclusive private security club just to dodge the relentless paparazzi. The emergency hotline was still active. It rang only once.

"Caitlyn. I am in the penthouse suite of the Waldorf. Bring your most vicious bodyguards. Use the private elevator. You have three minutes." Alia fired off the commands without pausing for breath.

On the other end of the line, Caitlyn Kensington paused for a fraction of a second, shocked by the absolute authority in Alia's tone. But her Old Money instinct for crisis management overrode her confusion. She agreed and hung up.

Alia tossed the phone onto the bed. She walked toward the massive walk-in closet, sliding the heavy mirrored door open. She turned to Ansel and lifted her chin.

"You need to hide in here. No matter what happens outside, do not come out." Her tone left no room for negotiation.

"Stay in there. No matter what happens outside, do not come out." Alia released the heavy wooden handle of the closet door, hearing the latch click into place. She turned around, her bare feet sinking into the plush carpet as she walked back into the center of the living room.

She quickly shrugged off the heavy white bathrobe, letting it drop to the floor. She grabbed a discarded oversized men's dress shirt from the armchair and pulled it on, leaving the top three buttons undone. She walked toward the entryway, her breathing steady.

Just as she reached the foyer, the electronic lock on the heavy mahogany door beeped sharply. The sound of a keycard being forced through the reader was followed by a loud, aggressive shove.

The door flew open. The harsh, fluorescent light from the hallway spilled into the dim suite, bringing with it a chaotic stampede of footsteps and the suppressed, eager whispers of a crowd.

Cherri rushed in first. Her face was twisted into a mask of exaggerated panic. "Alia! Are you in here? Please tell me you did not do anything stupid!"

Right behind her, a pack of five gossip reporters pushed their way inside. They held heavy cameras and microphones, their lenses scanning the room like hungry predators. The flashbulbs erupted, turning the living room into a blinding strobe light show.

Alia took two steps back, raising her hands to shield her face as if terrified by the sudden intrusion. She let her knees buckle slightly, collapsing onto the edge of the velvet sofa, her shoulders trembling.

Cherri spotted Alia sitting there, wearing nothing but a men's shirt, her hair a messy tangle. A flash of pure, malicious joy lit up Cherri's eyes.

"Oh my god, Alia! What... what are you doing here? Who is the man?" Cherri gasped loudly, covering her mouth with both hands in a theatrical display of shock.

The reporters smelled blood. They swarmed the sofa, shoving their microphones dangerously close to Alia's face.

"Miss Stanton, are you engaging in illegal transactions in this hotel?" A reporter with thick glasses shouted over the clicking cameras.

Alia kept her head down. Her shoulders shook violently, presenting the perfect image of a broken, weeping woman. Beneath the shadow of her hair, her lips curled into a cold, hard sneer.

Cherri stepped in front of the cameras, playing the protective sister while pouring gasoline on the fire. "Stop filming her! My sister must have been forced! She would never do something so dirty!"

Cherri spun around, her eyes darting across the room, searching for the hidden lover. Her gaze locked onto the closed doors of the walk-in closet.

"Is that bastard hiding in there? I am calling the police to have him arrested!" Cherri marched toward the closet, reaching out to grab the handle.

Alia's eyes turned lethal. She tensed her leg muscles, preparing to intercept her.

Before Cherri could touch the door, a deafening crash echoed from the terrace. The heavy glass sliding door connecting the suite to the adjacent balcony was violently shoved open.

A gust of night wind swept into the stuffy room. Everyone froze, turning their heads toward the sudden noise.

Caitlyn Kensington stepped into the suite. She wore a striking red haute couture trench coat and five-inch stilettos. She tossed her long hair over her shoulder, flanked by two massive men in black suits. She walked in with the absolute dominance of a queen inspecting her subjects.

"Call the police? Go ahead. I would love to see who dares to touch my people." Caitlyn's voice was a whip cracking through the silence.

The reporters instantly recognized the heir to the Kensington family. She was a top-tier socialite no one in the media dared to cross. The cameras were slowly lowered, the reporters exchanging nervous glances.

All the color drained from Cherri's face. She had meticulously planned this, and Caitlyn's appearance was a catastrophic variable.

"Caitlyn... what are you doing here?" Cherri stammered, her voice shaking.

Caitlyn walked over to the sofa, positioning herself protectively in front of Alia. She looked down at Cherri, her eyes filled with utter disgust.

"I came to pick up my best friend. She just finished a grueling audition and needed a place to rest. Do I need to report my schedule to a stepdaughter?" Caitlyn's sarcasm cut deep.

The reporters shifted uncomfortably. The narrative was changing rapidly. This was no longer a sex scandal; it was turning into a vicious catfight between high-society heirs.

Cherri refused to give up. She pointed a trembling finger at the oversized shirt Alia was wearing. "An audition? Then how do you explain the men's clothes?"

Caitlyn let out a sharp laugh. She picked up a glass of ice water from the coffee table and, without a second of hesitation, threw the freezing liquid directly into Cherri's face.

The ice cubes hit Cherri's cheek. She shrieked, stumbling backward as the water ruined her flawless makeup, leaving dark streaks of mascara running down her chin.

"That shirt belongs to my fiancé. Alia spilled coffee on her dress and borrowed it. Do you have a problem with that?" Caitlyn lied with breathtaking confidence, her tone dripping with arrogance.

Behind the closet door, Ansel stood perfectly still. He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of genuine amusement crossing his dark eyes at the Kensington heir's sheer audacity.

The reporters were completely paralyzed. The fiancé of the Kensington heir. They would rather jump off the Brooklyn Bridge than print a word implying he was involved in a cheap hotel scandal.

Alia slowly stood up from the sofa. She wiped away a drop of physiological tear from the corner of her eye. She locked her cold gaze onto the screaming Cherri. The counterattack was about to begin.