Adam's POV
"And Grace," I added, maintaining eye contact to ensure my message was absolutely clear, "what happened with Light was a one-time intervention. Don't expect that level of help again."
The mention of Light genuinely unsettled her, her composure cracking further. "Adam, I—"
"We're done here," I cut her off, turning to Mark. "Let me know when the account is ready."
Without waiting for a response from either of them, I left the room, needing to breathe.
She really thought I'd keep cleaning up her messes?
The hallway was empty as I leaned against the wall, exhaling deeply. My conversation with Grace left a bitter taste—especially realizing how I'd enabled her behavior for years.
I really messed up.
A few minutes later, Mark found me with the tablet. "The account is set up and verified," he said, handing it to me. "Ready whenever you want it."
I took it, looking at the blank profile with disinterest. "This thing is useless to me."
Mark raised an eyebrow. "Not even to clarify misunderstandings about your marriage? Stella's been quite popular online recently."
That caught my attention. "Stella uses social media?"
"Occasionally," Mark confirmed. "After the Light show, she frequently appeared in trending topics."
"What are you going to say?" he asked as I began composing a post.
I typed five words on the screen, clear and unambiguous:
"Married. Wife's surname is Winston."
Mark read over my shoulder, nodding. "Simple. Effective. Leaves no room for speculation."
I posted without further thought and returned the tablet to him. "That's all I have to say."
Stella, you are my wife, that will never change.
Stella's POV
I arrived at the classroom ten minutes earlier than usual, only to find it almost completely full. Students were whispering among themselves, falling silent as soon as I entered. This sudden attention made me uncomfortable—had I missed something?
"Good morning," I greeted them, setting down my materials. "Everyone seems quite eager today."
A ripple of suppressed laughter spread through the classroom, confusing me even more. While organizing my notes, I noticed several students glancing at me, then whispering to their neighbors, their eyes repeatedly drawn to my hands.
"Professor Winston," a male student in the second row finally spoke up hesitantly, "could I... see your hand?"
I froze. "What?"
"Your left hand," he explained, looking around at his classmates who seemed equally interested in my response. "Just for a second?"
Though bewildered, I held up my left hand, palm facing out. "Is there something wrong with my hand?"
Another wave of whispers swept through the classroom, several students leaning forward for a better look.
"She's not wearing a ring," someone said loud enough for me to hear.
"Wearing what?" I was completely lost now.
A female student in the front row looked up from her phone. "Your wedding ring, Professor Winston. Or should we call you Mrs. Lancaster now?"
My heart skipped a beat. "I don't understand—"
"GT Group's CEO made an official statement on Twitter last night," another student explained excitedly. "He said he's married and his wife's surname is Winston. That's you, right? I mean, how many Winstons could there be in his circle?"
I stood there frozen, processing this information. Adam had made a public statement? About our marriage? About me?
The ring hanging from the chain around my neck suddenly felt heavier. I resisted the urge to touch it, to confirm it was still hidden beneath my sweater.
"Professor?" The original student prompted, clearly hoping for confirmation.
I cleared my throat, quickly regaining my composure. "I believe we're here to discuss design innovation in global markets, not my personal life. Please turn to page 217."
Their disappointment was obvious, but they complied, reluctantly shifting their attention to the lesson. I launched into my lecture on aesthetic evolution in modern fashion, but my mind was elsewhere.
Throughout the three-hour session, I repeatedly lost my train of thought, consulting my notes more often than usual. My mind kept circling back to Adam's supposed announcement. What exactly had he said?
The final minutes of class dragged endlessly until the clock finally struck noon, and I dismissed the students with a reading assignment. As they filtered out, I could hear snippets of their conversations—most still speculating about me and Adam.
God, if I'm the subject of campus gossip, I can only imagine what the society pages are saying.
---
The moment the last student left, I practically lunged for my phone, which I'd deliberately silenced in my bag. The screen lit up with an avalanche of notifications—dozens of missed calls, countless text messages, and Twitter alerts I hadn't seen since the Light show in Paris.
I scrolled through the messages, my heart pounding:
[Stella, is Adam Lancaster's post about you?! Call me ASAP!]
[OMG did you secretly marry the GT CEO?? The whole Upper East Side is talking!]
[Unknown number: Are you THE Winston that Lancaster mentioned??]
Messages from people I barely knew, social acquaintances, former classmates—all asking essentially the same question: Was I Adam Lancaster's wife?
Lisa's text stood out:
[Lisa: Stella! I'm back in Manhattan handling my transfer paperwork! Can't wait to be your student officially! PS: Your husband's declaration is EVERYWHERE! So romantic!! ]
I took a deep breath and finally opened Twitter. Sure enough, the trending topics were dominated by one hashtag: #AdamLancasterMarried.
I tapped on the tag and found myself staring at a verified account with Adam's name. His profile was stark—no photo, no bio, just a single post that had apparently set the internet ablaze:
[Married. Wife's surname is Winston.]
Five simple words. No elaboration, no context, no mention of Grace or the rumors. Just a straightforward declaration of our marital status.
I stared at the screen until it dimmed from inactivity, my mind swirling with conflicting emotions.
This is what I wanted, isn't it? Public acknowledgment? Him shutting down the Grace rumors?
But the satisfaction I'd expected to feel was strangely absent. Instead, a hollow ache filled my chest. It was as if Adam had checked a box—Problem: Stella upset about rumors. Solution: Public statement.
Too little, too late. A few words on social media don't change anything.
It felt like seeing a tiny speck of light after walking in darkness for so long, only to realize you're still in the middle of nowhere.
I put away my phone and gathered my things, suddenly desperate for some fresh air.
---
The convenience store near campus was mercifully quiet when I stepped inside. I needed water—my throat was parched from lecturing all morning, and the emotional whiplash of the past twenty-four hours had left me feeling dehydrated.
"Professor Winston!" The student cashier called out as I approached with a bottle of water. "Wait, I have something for you!"
She disappeared into the back room, returning with two cans of sparkling lemon water—my favorite brand.
"A man left these for you last night," she explained, setting them on the counter. "Really good-looking guy in an expensive suit. He said to make sure you got them today."
I stared at the familiar cans, instantly recognizing them as the brand I'd once offhandedly mentioned to Adam—the same drink I'd told him should accompany a proper apology.
He remembered. And he tried to deliver them yesterday.
"He was very insistent," the girl continued, obviously intrigued. "Said they were your favorite. I put them in the fridge overnight."
I picked up one of the cans, noticing something off immediately—the metal felt wrong under my fingers, slightly bloated. Looking more closely, I saw tiny bubbles around the rim of the lid.
"These have gone bad," I said, examining the expiration date on the bottom. Still within date, but clearly compromised somehow.
"Oh no!" The girl looked mortified. "I'm so sorry! I can throw them away—"
"It's fine," I assured her, setting the cans back on the counter.
I walked out of the store, pausing by the trash can outside. I looked at the spoiled drinks one last time before dropping them into the bin.
Even the most carefully selected gift becomes worthless if it arrives too late.
The metaphor wasn't lost on me. Adam's social media declaration, like these drinks, may have been exactly what I wanted at one point—but now they both felt past their prime, no longer desirable or useful.
Some things, once they've changed, can't be unchanged. No matter how nice the packaging remains.