Cold fury pulsed through Rhys’s veins. Weston’s latest salvo had landed hard, a direct hit below the belt, not just at Sterling but at Clara personally. His jaw clenched. The anonymous article, a thinly veiled assault on Sterling's art acquisitions, had taken a vicious turn by dredging up the Thorne Gallery scandal, Clara’s family legacy. Weston wasn’t playing by the rules. This wasn't just corporate rivalry; it was a personal vendetta, and Clara was caught in the crossfire. Clara, across his large, mahogany desk, looked pale but resolute. Her fingers gripped a stylus, knuckles white, as she stared at the offending digital headline. “They’re not just attacking Sterling,” she stated, her voice tight. “They’re attacking me. Attacking my family’s past.” Rhys watched her. A flicker of something – anger, protectiveness – sparked within him, surprising in its intensity. This wasn't the pawn he’d manipulated; this was his wife, and she was under attack. “Precisely,” he agreed, pushing a stack of legal documents aside. “And now we respond. Together.” He leaned forward, his gaze piercing. “This isn’t just about Sterling’s stock price anymore. It’s about reputation. Your reputation. Mine. And by extension, ours.” Their shared office felt charged, crackling with unspoken tension. The personal conflict between them simmered, a dangerous undercurrent beneath the urgent need for a united front. Over the next few days, their lives became a whirlwind of damage control. Lawyers, PR consultants, and financial advisors moved in and out of Sterling Tower like a relentless tide. Rhys was everywhere, a formidable presence, guiding every conversation, dictating every strategy. His focus was absolute, his commands sharp and unyielding. Clara found herself immersed in the art department, verifying every acquisition, cross-referencing provenance, dissecting every detail that Weston had attempted to twist. Working side-by-side, their interactions were clipped, efficient, devoid of the usual barbs. A fragile truce had been called, born of necessity rather than desire. She saw a different side of Rhys then. The ruthless CEO, yes, but also a strategic genius, anticipating every move Weston might make, blocking every perceived weakness. His energy was boundless. Long nights blurred into early mornings, fueled by coffee and a shared sense of urgency. The pressure was immense, a constant, suffocating weight. Weston’s campaign escalated. More articles appeared, whispers on financial news channels, veiled questions about Sterling’s aggressive expansion and its

Chapter 31: United Front, Divided Hearts