Chapter 50

The clock struck midnight when Ethan and Vivian finally changed into their sleepwear.

Vivian lay on the bed, arms crossed, glaring at the striking man lounging on the sofa in dark blue pajamas.

"It's just a scratch on my arm. You don’t need to babysit me all night," she snapped. "Go home. We should stick to our usual arrangement—distance."

Ethan calmly closed the magazine he'd been flipping through. His piercing gaze locked onto hers. "You got hurt protecting me. That makes it my responsibility." He tilted his head slightly. "Need me to tuck you in?"

"Absolutely not!" Vivian huffed, rolling onto her side, turning her back to him.

Fine. If he insisted on playing bodyguard, she wouldn’t stop him. At least she was comfortably sprawled across the bed while he suffered on that stiff sofa.

The soft glow of the bedside lamp cast warm shadows across the room. Silence stretched between them, broken only by the occasional rustle of magazine pages.

Oddly enough, despite her recent insomnia, sleep came easily tonight. For the first time in days, she felt safe.

Ethan rubbed his temples, exhaustion creeping in. The golden light accentuated his sharp jawline and tousled dark hair.

His gaze drifted to Vivian, curled into a tiny ball under the covers. Something in his chest tightened. How could someone so delicate possess such reckless bravery?

He stayed because he knew the dangers lurking in the shadows. If she woke thirsty or in pain, he’d be there. And if those who’d tried to kill him came for revenge—he’d be ready.

Coffee in hand, he scrolled through his phone, pausing on a trending fan page—Lockhart_Hunter.

The page had exploded after the auction incident. Countless posts praised Vivian’s heroics. He clicked on a viral video—her lightning-fast kick disarming the gunman.

His brows furrowed.

Those moves weren’t amateur. They were polished, precise—like years of training.

Who is this woman?

The comments section was worse.

"Vivian is a goddess! Risking her life for love? Iconic."

"Ethan doesn’t deserve her. Liam Osborne would treat her better."

"Team #Lockwood_Osborne forever!"

His grip tightened around the phone.

Creating a burner account, he fired back: "Liam’s a spoiled playboy. He’s nowhere near her league."

The internet pounced.

"Says who? Prove it, troll."

"Liam’s loyal. Ethan’s just cold."

"Get a life, hater."

Gritting his teeth, he deleted the comment.

Worse yet, posts glorifying Vivian and Liam flooded the page. Then he remembered—the fanfiction.

Lockhart_Hunter had written a viral story about them. But it was gone. Vanished.

Frustrated, he dialed Ethan Young.

"Can you recover deleted posts during damage control?"

"...What?"

"An account named Lockhart_Hunter wrote a fic about Vivian and me. Get tech to retrieve it."

Ten minutes later, the reply came.

"Mr. Blackwood, the techs checked. We didn’t delete it. The author wiped all traces deliberately."

Ethan’s jaw clenched.

Now he needed to read it.