As I woke up the next morning, I slid into my usual routine—skincare, black coffee, and a playlist that matched my mood: ruthless but refined. I walked over to Maxi's bed and yanked the covers off.
“Hey, get up. We’re going to the gym.”
She groaned, burying her face in the pillow. “I don’t want to. I’m still sleepy.”
I sighed. “We’re taking the day off after this. Rest. Shopping.”
Her eyes flew open, sparkling like she just heard the gates of paradise swing open. “Shopping? Rest? Say no more—we’re going to the gym.”
As she bounced out of bed to get ready, I sat on the couch scrolling through my phone.
And then I saw it.
A tabloid headline with a photo of me and Leuvremont leaving the Imperial Hall together.
The caption: “Enemies or Lovers? Power Duo Spotted Together—Wife Fight at the Auction?”
“Oh. My. GOSH. What the f*ck is this?! Aaaaccckkk!” I shrieked, launching up from my seat.
Maxi popped her head into the room like a meerkat on caffeine. “What!? What happened!? Did a thief break in?!”
“Worse than a thief,” I muttered, shoving my phone in her face.
She looked at the screen, gasped dramatically, then let out a high-pitched squeal. “OH. MY. GOSH! MY SHIP IS SAILING! I knew it—I’m not the only one who ships you two!”
I rolled my eyes and dialed my PR team without another word.
“Take down every post, article, or whisper about me and Leuvremont. Especially the one implying we’re having some husband-and-wife fights! Immediately!” I snapped, pacing like a lioness in heels.
Maxi was still cackling in the background, clearly enjoying this more than she should.
Maxi was still in full fan mode, bouncing on her toes. “Do you think they’ll make edits? Like, romantic montages with dramatic music? Should I send one in anonymously?”
“Don’t you dare,” I warned, pointing a finger at her.
My phone buzzed again—this time with a notification from a media outlet.
Breaking: ‘Ice Queen & Iron King’ — Vienna’s Power Duo or Power Struggle?
I clicked it. Bad decision.
"Sources inside the Imperial Hall auction confirm that the mysterious Ms. Casanove and the enigmatic Mr. Leuvremont left the event together in the same car. Witnesses say the chemistry was so intense it could melt the Alps. Is this the birth of a new corporate empire—or something deeper? More details on the alleged 'husband-and-wife’ energy that had tongues wagging all night."
I tossed my phone on the couch like it had burned me.
Maxi peeked at the screen. “Oh no. They’re writing fanfiction now.”
Before I could rage-scroll more, a message popped up on my phone.
Leuvremont: "Should I start practicing saying 'Yes, dear' or will you be the submissive one in this fictional marriage?"
I stared at the screen in disbelief.
Another message followed:
Leuvremont: "Also, I like the one headline calling us ‘Ice Queen & Iron King’. Sounds like a hit drama series. Should we sell the rights?"
I texted back without hesitation:
Me: "You’re enjoying this way too much."
Leuvremont: "Immensely. It’s not every day I get to be married to someone who tried to bankrupt me in public."
Maxi read over my shoulder and gasped. “You two are the definition of enemies-to-lovers. I’m living for this!”
“I swear,” I muttered, grabbing my gym bag, “one more headline and I’m suing the internet.”
An Hour Later — Gym Time
We were at the most exclusive gym in Vienna. Only the kind of people who bought private jets on a whim worked out here. Maxi was doing stretches while still scrolling through Twitter.
“They made fan accounts,” she whispered like it was sacred knowledge. “@IceQueenxIronKing. Look. They’re doing polls now. ‘Who wears the pants in the relationship?’ You’re winning by 68%.”
“Of course I am. I’m the one wearing actual pants,” I said, slamming a set of deadlifts.
Then my phone buzzed again.
Leuvremont: “Tell your assistant Maxi to stop liking posts from those fan accounts. I see her username.”
I looked up slowly. “Maxi.”
“What?” she said innocently.
“Stop feeding the beast.”
Later That Day — Shopping District
After the gym, we headed straight into a luxury shopping spree. Vienna’s top designers welcomed us with open arms (and closed registers, because who needed a receipt when you were a legend?).
As I admired a black velvet gown, Maxi nudged me with her elbow. “You realize, the more you deny it, the more the public is convinced you're secretly married.”
“They’ll forget it by next week,” I said, slipping the dress over my arm.
Then my phone buzzed.
Another post.
This time it was a paparazzi photo—Leuvremont at a press event, smirking as reporters asked him about me.
"She’s brilliant, dangerous, and exhausting in the best way. If I ever tie the knot, pray for me—it’ll be with her."
I stared at the screen.
Maxi read it too. “...Did he just soft-launch your engagement?”
I didn’t respond. I turned to the cashier. “Add the red stilettos too. I feel like crushing someone today.”
Evening — A Private Gala for Tech and Trade Elite
The rooftop was dripping in glass, gold, and good lies. The Vienna skyline behind me gleamed like a diamond threat. I walked in wearing the red stilettos I bought that morning—each step a declaration. The velvet dress hugged me like victory. Maxi trailed behind me, phone in hand, documenting nothing and everything.
Leuvremont was already there. Of course. Smirking like he owned the skyline.
He was surrounded by dignitaries, CEOs, and too many women pretending to laugh at his corny jokes. When his eyes landed on me, the conversation stopped mid I wasn’t even consulted on,” I said coolly, wine glass in hand, barely glancing at him.
He blinked. “Did I? I was asked about marriage and answered truthfully.”
“That I exhaust you?”
“In the best way,” he said, smiling now. “If I had said ‘no comment,’ it would’ve looked more suspicious. You’re welcome.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re glowing. That color—did you wear it to threaten me or seduce the press?”
I took a sip, eyes locked on his. “Why choose?”
The crowd around us leaned in subtly, pretending not to eavesdrop. Maxi stood nearby with the biggest grin, filming “for future blackmail purposes.”
Leuvremont’s smirk deepened. “Should we just get it over with and host a press conference titled ‘Not Married, Not Interested, Mind Your Business’?”
“Tempting,” I said. “But I have a better idea.”
I turned smoothly to the crowd. “Good evening, everyone,” I said loud enough to silence every whispered theory.
“Contrary to popular belief,” I continued with poise, “I am not married to Mr. Leuvremont. Nor are we dating. If we were, I wouldn’t be seen in public with a man whose idea of foreplay is hostile mergers.”
Laughter rippled through the rooftop.
Leuvremont chuckled, not embarrassed—amused. “And if I were married to Ms. Casanove, I’d be filing for emotional bankruptcy.”
More laughter.
He raised his glass. “To rumors,” he said smoothly, “which die as quickly as they come—unless she sets them on fire herself.”
I tapped his glass with mine. “I only burn what deserves it.”
Maxi had gone inside. The party hummed behind me, but I needed air. I stepped out onto the balcony—and of course, moments later, footsteps followed.
“You made a speech,” Leuvremont said behind me.
“I had to. Someone started our wedding without an RSVP.”
He leaned on the railing beside me. “You looked good tonight.”
“I always do.”
He smiled.
Then quieter: “The press may be wrong about us, but one thing’s true—I do think about what it would be like.”
I didn’t reply. Just looked out at the stars as Vienna sparkled beneath us.
Then I turned to him, calm and unreadable. “Don’t fall in love with me, Leuvremont.”
He laughed "Jus how observant are you?"
"Enough to notice that there are paparazzi behind that three, also one near the gate, behind the bush and finally that trash bin."
I walked past him then, not looking back.
Power wasn’t in declaring victory.
It was in walking away knowing they still wanted to fight you.
The Next Evening — Zurich Elite Investment Gala
"You and Leuvremont are No. 1 topic in the world again." Maxi said giggling
The media didn’t care that we weren’t partners. That we weren’t lovers.
To them, we were a power dynamic. The headline would read:
“From Bidding Wars to Silent Stares — Casanove and Leuvremont Battle for Dominance Again”
And they wouldn’t be wrong.
The ballroom was cold with money and crystal. I arrived draped in black silk, hand linked with Alaric Demir, Turkish oil heir and known art dealer. Tall, refined, charismatic enough to look good on a magazine cover—but not dangerous enough to keep me interested.
It didn’t matter. That wasn’t his job.
He smiled for the cameras, whispered French into my ear, and slipped a diamond bracelet on my wrist. I let the flashbulbs catch it.
“Ms. Casanove seen with oil heir Alaric Demir at Zurich gala—Has she moved on from Leuvremont?”
The headlines were instant.
Across the room, I didn’t even have to search for him.
Archeron Leuvremont strolled in with Amaya Caldwell, a striking tech entrepreneur and rumored royal cousin of someone. Her laughter was polished. Her red gown cut to command attention.
“Mr. Leuvremont debuts public appearance with tech heiress—Are the courtroom rivals truly, rivals after all?”
The press lost its mind.
Every camera turned between us—flashes documenting the distance, the symmetry, the sharp contrast.
Maxi leaned over and whispered, “The media’s gonna eat this up like it’s the Met Gala.”
“Good,” I replied, sipping champagne. “Let them think we’ve both moved on.”
But we hadn’t even started.
Balcony — Quiet, Cold Air
Maxi had slipped inside. The city buzzed far below. I needed air, silence, and space where the press couldn’t speculate.
Footsteps.
“I thought you’d left,” I said without turning.
Leuvremont leaned against the railing beside me. “I never leave before my competitor.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Still seeing me as competitor?”
He glanced at me sideways. “Always. Even when I’m impressed.”
There was a long pause.
Then he added, “The media wants us to collapse into each other. But they don’t realize—we’re too busy trying to stay one step ahead.”
“They want a couple,” I murmured. “What they’re getting is a war disguised in perfume and suits.”
He looked at me again. “And neither of us is surrendering.”
“Never.”
And we stood there—two wolves beneath a moon that kept chasing the next move, the next win, the next shift of control.
Later that Night — In the Shadows of the Garden Pavilion
I stepped away from the crowd. The gala lights dimmed behind the hedges.
And of course… I wasn’t alone for long.
“I see you’ve upgraded,” he said smoothly.
“You’ve downgraded,” I replied without looking at him.
“Caldwell’s net worth would disagree.”
I turned to him slowly. “Is this a pissing contest now?”
He smiled. “With you, it always is.”
I took a step closer. “I didn’t bring Alaric to make you jealous.”
“I didn’t bring Amaya to impress you.”
We stared at each other for a beat too long.
Then we both looked away—like chess masters who didn’t want to admit they’d just been cornered.
From the garden, Maxi snapped a photo of us in silhouette, both facing away, both in sync and defiance.
The next morning?
“EXCLUSIVE: Rivals in Public, Secrets in the Garden? Casanove and Leuvremont’s Cold War Heats Up”
“Double Dates or Double Games? Power Titans Seen with New Lovers Amid Rumored Tension”
Let the media burn with questions.
Let the world guess.
Because while the cameras chased our shadows…
We were already preparing our next move.
Three Days Later — Geneva Trade Summit, Le Cygne Pavilion
It was supposed to be an elite closed-door negotiation between the biggest names in shipping, energy, and tech. But someone had the brilliant idea to pair firms for synergy talks. And of course, fate—or manipulation—had to match mine and Leuvremont’s companies.
Worse?
They invited our plus-ones.
Maxi, already beside me, whispered with glee. “I thought this summit was supposed to be boring.”
Across the table sat Amaya Caldwell, cool and poised. Her hand rested lightly on Archeron’s forearm like she’d practiced it for cameras.
Next to me, Alaric raised his brow. “Are we working together or starring in a reality show?”
I didn’t answer. The press had already been let in “briefly for transparency,” which really meant: bring the fireworks, we need headlines.
And boy, did they get them.
“Casanove-Leuvremont Trade Talks: New Power Couples or Strategic Seduction?”
“Maxi, Alaric, Amaya—A Four-Way Game of Thrones in Geneva?”
“Casanove Ignores Leuvremont’s Glances While Holding Demir’s Arm—Is This War or a Love Quadrangle?”
I tried to ignore the cameras flashing like a thunderstorm, but it was impossible not to notice the way Archeron’s gaze kept flicking toward me when Alaric leaned closer.
He smirked. I raised my glass.
“You look tense,” he murmured when the cameras weren’t looking.
“You look territorial,” I replied without missing a beat.
“I don’t like sharing.”
I leaned back, letting the sunlight hit the sapphire around my throat. “Then stop pretending she’s your queen.”
His smile flickered. “She’s good at appearances. But she’s not you.”
That? That earned him a pointed elbow under the table from Amaya, who clearly wasn’t deaf.
Maxi, biting back laughter, took a photo from her phone and whispered to me, “You do know this is trending under #CoupleWars, right?”
“Delete it.”
“I posted it.”
Of course she did.
That evening, a breaking headline swept the internet:
“After Heated Summit, Tension Escalates Between Casanove and Leuvremont—Gala Rivals or Hidden Lovers?”
“Public Pairs, Private Glares: Are Casanove and Leuvremont Using Lovers to Mask the Real Battle?”
Maxi handed me my tablet with a sly grin. “You’re officially in the media’s favorite love-hate saga.”
I rolled my eyes. “Then they better buckle up.”
Because this show?
Was just getting started.
The Next Morning –
I was halfway through reviewing the proposed logistics draft for the Southeast Asian expansion when my phone buzzed with a familiar ringtone.
“Mom,” I answered, trying to sound less exhausted than I was.
“Where are you now?” she asked in that gentle yet no-nonsense tone she’d perfected over decades of raising a future courtroom killer.
“In Geneva. Switzerland.”
“Good,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “Bring Alaric with you.”
I paused. “Excuse me?”
“He’s my godson, hija. And I haven’t seen him in years. You’re both flying to Manila. Tonight.”
“Mom, I have—”
“A case,” she finished for me. “And it’s in Manila. Don’t act like I don’t keep tabs on my daughter. You're due in court this week. So fly with him. It’s more presentable.”
"Presentable?"
"Yes. You know how the Manila press is. A strong woman always causes scandal unless there’s a man beside her."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “So I need a prop now?”
“I’m giving you a godson. Not a prop.”
Before I could argue further, she hung up.
Airport – Manila, Philippines
We didn’t even make it through arrivals before the swarm came.
“Ms. Casanove and Mr. Demir arrive in Manila—new power duo or strategic partnership?”
“Alaric and Casanove: From Geneva to Manila, Just Business?”
“No Leuvremont in Sight—Is Casanove Switching Sides?”
Alaric leaned toward me as flash after flash lit up our path to the car. “This country’s press is bold.”
“They’re just bored,” I muttered, pulling down my sunglasses.
Three Days Later – Manila High Court
The case was anything but bored.
Corrupt lawyers, missing witnesses, and a vanishing piece of evidence made the trial a maze of roadblocks. I spent nights cross-referencing legal codes and mornings interrogating hostile parties like I was born for this. Because I was.
Every time I stepped out of the courthouse, the press was there. And every time, Alaric was beside me.
“They’re really running with this ‘new alliance’ angle,” Maxi texted with a string of heart emojis.
I sent her back a middle finger emoji.
But somewhere between the chaos of the courtroom and the daily media chased, a new headline began to rise:
“Casanove Silences Manila Courtroom With Closing Argument—Unstoppable and Untouchable.”
“Demir and Casanove: Legal Legends or Just Jet-Setting Business Allies?”
The jury would decide the verdict.
But the public?
They were already hooked.
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