Hundred and Seventy Nine

Hundred and Seventy Nine
Declan had warned me it would be intense, but standing there beside him, I realised nothing could have prepared me for the reality of it. The conference room was very bright, with the white lights shining overhead.

Declan was a few inches ahead of me, tall and steady in his black suit. I could see the faint movement of his jaw, that small tell that meant he was tense. I don’t think anyone else would’ve noticed.

He looked every bit the man people expected him to be. He was confident, composed, the kind of person who belonged in front of cameras. I, on the other hand, felt like an impostor in my simple navy blouse, clutching a folder I didn’t even need, just to have something to do with my hands.

He reached back slightly, brushing his fingers against mine. The briefest touch. Grounding. He looked back, and our eyes met. He smiled a small, reassuring smile. 

My sweet lover. Looking back at me, like he always would, Orpheus to my Eurydice.

I gave him a small smile back. Then he stepped up to the podium.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, voice low but firm. “We’ll make this brief, and we’ll take a few questions.”

The first hand shot up almost immediately.

“Mr. Ashwell, is Noah your biological son?”

Declan didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he said simply. “Noah is my son.”

The hum started, reporters murmuring, some whispering to each other as though confirming they’d just heard what they wanted.

I exhaled slowly, my fingers tightening around the folder. The words were out now. Irrevocable.

Another voice cut through the noise. “So, Ms. Whitefield,” a man in a grey blazer said, “you were his student at the time, correct?”

I looked at Declan, not meeting the reporter’s eyes. Declan’s eyes flicked toward me, then back to the reporter.

“Yes,” he said, his voice measured. “Willow was my student. Years ago. What happened between us later wasn’t something either of us planned, but it happened when we were both adults, and it was real. It still is.”

There was something almost defiant in the way he said it. I could feel my pulse in my neck.

Then came the question I’d been dreading.  “Ms. Whitefield, do you think your career has benefitted from your relationship with Mr. Ashwell?”

Declan’s hand came down flat on the podium before I could even open my mouth. “No,” he said sharply. 

The room went quiet, the chatter dying down instantly.

He looked straight at the reporter who had asked this. “If anything, Willow has paid the price for being associated with me. She lost opportunities because of our past. She’s had to face
judgment, rumors, and the kind of cruelty that should shame every one of you writing these stories.” His voice softened slightly. “She hasn’t gained from me. I’ve gained from her; her patience, her strength, her forgiveness.”

My throat tightened. I stared down at my hands because if I looked at him, I’d cry, and I refused to do that in front of those flashing cameras.

A woman near the front raised her hand. “Mr. Ashwell, have you reconciled with your family? Will you be taking a role at Ashwell Industries?”

Declan exhaled, slow and deliberate. “No,” he said.

A ripple of whispers moved through the room, but he kept going.

“I have no plans to join Ashwell Industries, nor any involvement with my family’s business. I walked away from that world a long time ago, and I don’t intend to go back.”

Someone muttered something about “burning bridges,” and Declan’s jaw tightened.

“I’d rather build something honest than inherit something rotten,” he said evenly. “My family made their choices. I’ve made mine.”

The air buzzed again. His words were shocking. They had their new headline. But Declan didn’t seem to care. He looked back at me then, briefly, his expression softening in a way that made my chest ache.

“This is my family now,” he said, quiet but firm. “That’s all that matters.”

The reporters erupted with follow-up questions, but I barely heard them. All I could hear was the faint sound of my own heartbeat in my ears.

A moderator stepped in, trying to maintain order. “One last question.”

A voice from the back called out, “Ms. Whitefield, what do you want people to understand about all this?”

Dozens of cameras turned toward me. My stomach twisted, but Declan gave me the smallest nod.

I stepped forward. My voice trembled at first, but steadied as I went on.

“I want people to understand that… love doesn’t always follow rules,” I said. “It doesn’t wait for the right timing or the right circumstances. And sometimes, you make mistakes, but you learn, and you grow. What matters is that you try to be better, and you protect the people you love.”

My fingers loosened around the folder. “I’ve spent years being scared of what people might say. But the truth is simple. Declan is a good man. Noah is our son. And this is our life. You
don’t have to like it, but it’s ours.”

Declan’s hand found mine again as the room fell into a strange hush.

Then the moderator declared the conference over, and suddenly it was chaos again. The flashes, the questions shouted, chairs scraping. Declan squeezed my hand once before leading me out of the crowd.

In the hallway, I leaned against the wall, trying to catch my breath. “Was that… did that just happen?”

He laughed quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “It did.”

“I think my soul just left my body.”

“You were perfect,” he said. “Strong. Brave.”

“I think I blacked out halfway through.”

He smiled faintly. “Then maybe we should do it more often.”

I elbowed him lightly, and he grinned, tired, but proud.

As we stepped outside, a reporter shouted one last question “Mr. Ashwell! Do you regret cutting ties with your family?”

Declan stopped, turned halfway toward them.

“No,” he said simply. “I regret letting them hurt the people I love. But walking away? That was the best decision I ever made.”

He turned back to me then, his eyes softer, more human than the man who’d stood behind that podium.

“Ready to go home?”

I nodded, my voice barely above a whisper. “More than ready.”

He opened the car door for me, and as I slid in, I looked back at the crowd. For the first time, it didn’t feel like something I had to escape from. It just… was.

When we pulled away, the city lights flickered across his face. He was quiet, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely in his lap.

“Declan?” I said softly.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

He glanced over. “For what?”

“For saying what you did. For… standing up for me.”

He smiled faintly, eyes still on the road. “You really think I’d let them talk about you like that?”

I laughed under my breath. “I don’t know. You’ve probably handled worse press.”

“Not about you,” he said simply.

I looked out the window then, my throat tight again.

When he reached over at a stoplight and took my hand, I squeezed back.

It hit me then, this was what it meant to stop hiding. Not to be fearless, but to choose honesty anyway.

For the first time, I wasn’t afraid of being seen.

Not when I was standing beside him.