“You’re late,” he said. Not angry, just marking it for the record that I had disappointed him before I even spoke.
“I—”
He sliced the air with two fingers.
“The Veil account is gone,” he added, eyes still on the monitor. “Don’t embarrass yourself with theatrics. It was Adams property. You represent us. It isn’t yours to mourn.”
Not mine.
Three years of nights answering comments until my vision doubled, morning filming on two hours of sleep while ahandler dabbed concealer under my eyes. Three years of building a version of myself big enough to drown out the version they preferred. Not mine?
“It was my face,” I said. The words came out too even. “My voice. My life.”
Alexander’s eyes lifted an inch. Just enough to make it clear he was indulging me.
“And who paid for the face that sells?” he asked. “The lights? The teams? The dynasty. Try not to confuse labor with ownership, Emilia.” His gaze returned to the screen. “Be grateful it lasted as long as it did. Most girls are retired at nineteen.”
Retired. Like an app that stops receiving updates and gets quietly removed from the store.
He tapped a folder on the desk. “They’ll relaunch you after your birthday. Fresh branding. Stronger positioning.“
“Rebrand,” I repeated, because if I didn’t keep my mouth moving, I might say something I couldn’t take back.
“Correct. Your audience will migrate. We’ll seed the pipeline for three days and flip the switch Sunday at noon. New narrative, new metrics. Vales’ tech team has mocked two directions. Galleo’s people submitted three. Salvere insists they can do better on sentiment scores by anchoring you to charity work—they’re wrong, but they’ll pay for a gala if we let them think it was their idea.”
Vale, Galleo, Salvere. Families who measured love in holdings and call it legacy. Just like every other dynasty.
Alexander slid the folder toward me with a fingernail.
“Your bloodwork came back.”
I didn’t touch the folder.
“Markers are excellent. AMH and FSH inside optimal bands. Bone density good. Collagen integrity exceptional for your age. Inflammation profile low. Cardiovascular markersclean. All noted without any enchantments.” He paused. “Frankly, you should be flattered. You’ve aged better than expected.”
It was almost a compliment. Just back handed, delivered with an Adams nod of approval.
“It makes securing a deal simple,” He tapped another tab. Numbers shifted.
“Deal?”
“Marriage,” he corrected. “You turn twenty-one this weekend. No more delays. We should close within the week. You’ll receive house colors by Friday. Wear them Saturday night. The photos will read as intent.”
“So you’ve already decided,” As per normal, I am the last to know.
“We shortlisted three months ago.” Alexander adjusted a cufflink that didn’t need adjusting. “We floated numbers. We asked for quiet concessions. One house controls water and ports. One controls air. One controls data. All three control narrative. We prefer water for obvious reasons, but we’ll take leverage wherever it’s correctly priced.”
“And me?” I asked. “How are my prices calculated?”
That earned me the smallest smile. “Your price is the multiplier, Emilia. Your name takes on the value of the merger. You know this.”
I looked down at the folder.
EMILIA ADAMS — Q3 PERSONAL HEALTH // PUBLIC SENTIMENT SWEEP // MERGER READINESS.
Someone had paper-clipped a photo mockup to the front: the Adams crest ghosted behind the Vale sigil, like it was already a watermark.
“Do I get a choice?” I asked.
