Page 56 of His By Contract

Georgia’s vision swam, the words bleeding together as her heart hammered against her ribs. She gripped the edge of her desk, the polished wood solid beneath her frozen fingers. The screenshots taunted her as she clicked through them, searching desperately for signs of manipulation. But every detail was perfect: the message formatting, the casual intimacy of the exchanges, even references to real events twisted into damning evidence.

Nausea rolled through her stomach as the full weight of the exposure crashed over her. She felt stripped bare, her carefully built world cracking beneath her feet. The morning sun continued to pour through the windows, but she felt none of its warmth, only the cold grip of violation as her private life became public spectacle.

Georgia’s phone pinged softly, cutting through her frozen state. A new email from the PR manager glowed on her screen, the subject line stark and urgent:Emergency Meeting—Immediate Response Required.

Her throat tightened as she stared at those words. The thought of facing a room full of people, dissecting these lies about her life, made her skin crawl. She pressed her palm flat against the cool surface of her desk, trying to ground herself in something solid and real.

The fabricated messages still burned in her vision. She needed to move, to act, to fight back, but her legs refused to cooperate. The weight of what awaited her beyond these walls pressed down on her chest, making each breath a conscious effort.

Twenty minutes later, Georgia sat in the PR firm’s conference room, the glass table before her reflecting fluorescent lights that seemed to pierce straight through her skull. Around her, the PR team’s whispers filled the air with a constant hum of tension. Their faces were drawn tight, eyes darting between their tablets and the wall where a projector displayed the damning evidence.

Red circles highlighted inconsistencies in the fake messages, timestamps that didn’t align, phrases that didn’t match her writing style. But the distinctions felt paper-thin against the overwhelming weight of the accusations.

Sarah Bridges, the PR manager, stood at the head of the table, her navy blazer pulled tight across her shoulders as she crossed her arms. “We have three potential approaches,” she said, her voice clipped and professional. “First, we release an immediate statement denying the affair. Direct, but it could read as defensive—and the public tends to view quick denials with skepticism.”

Georgia’s fingers curled against her thighs as Sarah continued. “Second option: we have information on this supposed lover’s past. Criminal record, fraud charges. We could release it, but—”Sarah’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It might backfire. Make you look like you’re attacking him to cover your tracks.”

The room felt smaller with each word. Georgia watched as projections of lost contracts and sponsorships flashed across the screen. Brands she’d worked hard to partner with, relationships built on trust and mutual respect, all threatening to crumble.

“The third option,” Sarah said, “is silence. Let it die down naturally. But that strategy…” She gestured to a graph showing social media engagement. “That leaves room for speculation. And right now, speculation is not our friend.”

The youngest PR assistant, fresh-faced and eager, cleared his throat. “What if we leverage Mr. Adler’s influence? We could discredit this supposed lover completely, make sure no one takes him seriously.”

“Absolutely not.” Sarah’s voice cracked like a whip. “Using Adrian’s power against someone claiming to be a victim? The media would have a field day. We’d look like wealthy elitists crushing the little guy. It would only make things worse.”

Georgia sank deeper into the leather chair, feeling the cool material against her back through her blouse. Each option before her felt like stepping onto cracking ice. One wrong move and everything would shatter beneath her feet. Her eyes fixed on the projected messages, the red circles and annotations swimming together as her vision blurred.

The walls seemed to press inward, the conference room shrinking with each passing second. Her chest tightened, breath catching as the familiar sensation of being cornered crept over her. She hated this: the helplessness, the lack of control, thefeeling of being backed into a corner with no escape route in sight.

Later that night, Georgia sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor, the soft carpet doing little to cushion her rigid posture. Her laptop perched precariously on her knees, its screen casting harsh shadows across her face. Hours of scrolling had left her eyes raw and burning, but she couldn’t look away from the torrent of comments flooding her feed.

“Gold-digger exposed!” The words jumped out at her, followed by an endless stream of similar sentiments.

“Adrian could do so much better.”

“She used him for a lifestyle upgrade. Typical.”

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, drowning out the quiet stillness of the penthouse. Her finger moved mechanically on the trackpad, scrolling faster and faster, searching desperately for a friendly voice in the sea of hatred. A handful of loyal followers defended her, but their comments vanished beneath waves of vitriol.

At the top of every platform, the hashtags multiplied like a virus:

#GeorgiaExposed

#AdlerScandal

#FakeWife

Each one felt like another nail in the coffin of her reputation, her carefully built world crumbling with every refresh of the page.

Georgia’s finger hovered over the trackpad, frozen in place as another notification lit up her screen. The soft ping felt like a gunshot in the silent room. Her chest constricted as she clicked, watching the page load with agonizing slowness, until finally, the headline blazed across her screen:New Revelations: Georgia Adler’s Criminal Past Uncovered.

The words blurred as she forced herself to read the first paragraph. Her lungs burned, desperate for air she couldn’t seem to draw. Fraud allegations. Sealed arrest records. The article painted a picture of Adrian using his influence to hide her supposed criminal history, protecting her from public scrutiny. The implications twisted through her mind like poison.

Her hands shook violently as she gripped the laptop, reading the lines over and over. The arrest record stared back at her with cold authority, exact dates, detailed charges, and a grainy mugshot that could have been her in another life. The resemblance was uncanny enough to make her stomach lurch.

The thought of Vincent’s reach made her skin crawl, and she wondered how deep he had gone to construct this lie.

Notification after notification appeared on her phone, each one a fresh wound. Brand partnerships she’d cultivated dissolved before her eyes. Their carefully worded statements felt like paper cuts: professional, precise, and deeply painful. “After careful consideration…” “In light of recent developments…” “We regret to inform…”

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