Chapter 31: One Week

It’s been five days since the scandal broke.

Five days of headlines, think pieces, social media posts dissecting every detail of my life. Five days of Bael promising he’d "take care of it" while the situation only got worse.

Paparazzi camp outside the estate gates now. I can see them from the upstairs windows if I look carefully, vans with camera equipment, people with telephoto lenses, all waiting for a glimpse of the homewrecker omega who destroyed his own sister’s engagement.

They won’t get their photo though. The gates are too far from the main building, and I’ve learned to stay away from doors and windows. Mrs. Wen warned me on day two, so I keep to the interior rooms, the hallways, anywhere with enough distance that their cameras can’t reach.

Not that it matters. They already have photos, grainy shots from Eclipse Bar six weeks ago, me looking drunk and reckless, the night I "seduced" Bael according to every headline. Someone leaked those, sold them to the tabloids, and now they’re everywhere.

The only small mercy is that life inside the estate has settled into something almost routine.

Etiquette training every morning with Grandmother Wuchen. She’s stopped being quite so cold, though calling it "warm" would be a stretch. More like she’s moved from "barely tolerating my existence" to "resigned to making me presentable."

I’ve learned most of what she’s been teaching, how to sit, stand, walk. How to hold a wine glass, how to make small talk with business partners, how to smile without looking like I want to die.

The estate itself is strange. For a house this massive, there’s barely any staff presence. Mrs. Wen is the only one who moves freely through all the rooms. The chefs stay in the kitchen, other servants come once a week for deep cleaning, but they’re not allowed in my room or Bael’s...only Mrs. Wen has that access.

I didn’t understand why until a few nights ago.

Dinner. Me at one end of the table, Bael at the other, Grandmother Wuchen presiding from the middle like a queen at court.

I was picking at steamed fish when their voices dropped lower, not quite whispering but close enough that I had to strain to hear.

"The articles defending him aren’t gaining enough traction," Grandmother said quietly. "For every one your PR team plants, three more attack pieces appear within hours."

"I know." Bael’s voice was tight with frustration. "Someone’s actively pushing this, funding it, the scandal should have died down by now naturally."

"Have you identified who?"

A pause that made my chopsticks still against my plate.

"We’re close," Bael said. "That’s why I’ve let it continue. Let them think they’re winning so they get careless."

I kept my eyes on my food, pretending I couldn’t hear them.

So someone is doing this on purpose, actively making it worse.

Not just random internet hate or opportunistic tabloids, someone with money and motivation, using me as a weapon against Bael or his family or both.

The thought has been sitting heavy in my stomach ever since.

***

Lunch today is different.

Grandmother Wuchen joins us, which is rare, she typically takes her lunch separately unless there’s something specific to discuss.

Today, apparently, there is.

She waits until Mrs. Wen has served the food and leaves before speaking.

"We need to give the media something else to talk about." She says, no preamble, no softening, just straight to business. "The current narrative is too focused on scandal and speculation, we need to shift it."

Bael sets down his chopsticks. "What are you proposing?"

"Move the wedding date forward, one week from now."

I nearly choke on my water.

Grandmother’s eyes flick to me, sharp and assessing, then back to Bael.

"The preparations are already well underway. The venue has been prepared for months, the guest list finalized, catering arranged. We simply need to make calls and move everything forward."

My brain is still stuck on "one week."

"Moving it forward will look rushed, but the alternative is letting this scandal fester for another six weeks. It’s better to create a NEW headline, the wedding itself, than let the current narrative continue."

Her gaze finds mine.

"If the world sees you and Bael looking happy together on your wedding day, they’ll talk about that. About the dress, the ceremony, whether you look like a couple in love or a transaction. Either way, it shifts the conversation away from scandal and toward speculation about the marriage itself."

I want to argue, I want to say this is insane, but what’s the alternative? Six more weeks of headlines calling me a homewrecker while paparazzi camp outside the gates?

She’s not wrong.

"Yes," Grandmother says, as if I’d spoken out loud. "They’ll also see him as your husband, that changes things, not immediately or completely, but enough."

She takes a sip of tea with practiced elegance.

"Seven days gives us time to handle the individual we’ve identified as the source of these attacks. By the wedding day, that threat will be neutralized, the remaining scandal will fade naturally once the stories stop being artificially amplified."

Someone they’ve identified.

So they do know who’s behind it.

"You’ve found them?" The question escapes before I can stop myself.

Grandmother’s gaze sharpens on me. "We have strong suspicions, which will be confirmed shortly. You don’t need to concern yourself with the details."

Translation: stay out of it.

"Seven days," Bael says slowly, like he’s calculating something in his head. "It could work."

"It will work," Grandmother corrects. "I’ve already contacted the wedding planner, everything can be moved forward without significant complications."

She looks at me again.

"You’ll need final dress fittings, of course. And we’ll need to intensify your etiquette training for the next few days. There will be over two hundred guests, many of them important business contacts. You’ll need to be flawless."

No pressure.

"Is that a problem?" she asks when I don’t respond.

What am I supposed to say? That I need more time? The wedding was already scheduled, now it’s just happening sooner.

Besides, what difference does timing make at this point? I’m already living here, already pregnant, already bound to him in every way that matters.

A wedding is just making it official.

I force a smile. "No problem."

"Good." She returns to her meal like the conversation is over. "We’ll begin preparations this afternoon."

The rest of lunch passes in silence.

I pick at my food without really tasting it, my brain keeps circling the same thought: seven days until I’m married to Bael.

But honestly? It doesn’t bother me much.

I’ve been living in his house for days now, carrying his child. The damage to my relationship with Feifei is already done, irreversible, a wedding doesn’t change any of that.

If anything, it’s just... finishing what already started.

I set down my chopsticks.

Across the table, Bael is watching me with that unreadable expression.

"You look pale," he says.

"I’m fine."

"Are you?"

I meet his eyes. "Does it matter?"

Something flickers in his gaze, but before he can respond, Grandmother speaks.

"Seven days," she says again, like repetition will cement it in reality. "You both need to be prepared, this wedding will set the tone for everything that follows...business relationships, public perception, your position in society as a couple."

She dabs her mouth with a napkin and stands.

"I’ll have Mrs. Wen coordinate the dress fittings. Bael, your tuxedo needs final adjustments as well. And Runze..." She looks at me. "Do try to eat more. You’re still looking too thin."

Then she sweeps out of the dining room, leaving Bael and me alone.

The silence stretches.

"Seven days," I say quietly.

"Scared?" There’s something almost teasing in his voice.

"Should I be?"

He leans back in his chair, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s solving. "Most omegas would be thrilled to marry into the Wuchen family."

"I’m not most omegas."

His lips curve slightly. "That much is obvious."

Another pause.

"Seven days and you’re mine," he says, voice dropping lower. "Legally and officially, no more separate wings, no more Mrs. Wen as a buffer."

Heat crawls up my neck but I refuse to look away.

"Looking forward to it?" I let sarcasm bleed into my voice.

His smile is slow and dangerous.

"Very much."

Then he stands and leaves, and I’m alone in the massive dining room.

Seven days.

Outside, the paparazzi wait at the gates.

Inside, wedding preparations begin.

And somewhere out there, someone is actively trying to destroy me.