Married to the devil zillionaire

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ed my coat. I had no intention of staying another night in this suffocating house. But the moment I stepped outside, I was blinded by flashing lights. The press. Dozens of reporters swarmed like vultures, shoving microphones toward me. "Lena! Is it true you killed your stepsister, Carissa?" "Were you having an affair? Is that why she's dead?" "Why are you in the Romero mansion?" Another one asked. I stood frozen. My blood ran cold. I hadn't heard Carissa's name in weeks, and now it was being thrown at me like a dagger. Right in front of Leonardo's house. "Lena, why won't you answer?" "Is it true your father disowned you?" The questions became a deafening roar. I turned back, trembling, and slammed the door shut behind me. My breaths were shallow, panic clawing at my chest. Leonardo stood where I had left him, his expression unreadable. "Why didn't you keep the press away, Leonardo?" My voice cracked, my eyes burning with unshed tears. The agreement was that he would protect me. He didn't answer. Just watched me as if I were a puzzle he had already solved. Then, without a word, he walked out. I wanted to scream. To throw something at him. To demand why he was doing this to me. Instead, I collapsed onto the couch, shaking. My phone rang. It was my father. "Dad," I whispered, pressing the phone to my ear. His voice was ice. "You've humiliated me once again, Lena." I sucked in a sharp breath. "Dad, I-" "The press is eating you alive, and for what? Because of your recklessness? It's on the news." He sounded like he was in pain. "You really think I killed Carissa?" My voice was barely a whisper. "I don't know what to think anymore," he said. "But I do know one thing. Carissa never brought shame to my name." The line went dead. Tears slipped down my cheeks as I dropped the phone. I had nothing. No father. No freedom. No escape. Leonardo returned late that night. I ignored him at first, still sitting on the couch I had been in after he left. I refused to live like this. Ignored, discarded, blamed for a crime I didn't commit. I couldn't let the silence between us stretch another s