The video had done more than go viral.

It had detonated.

News anchors dissected every sentence. Political pundits tried to spin it. Major sponsors quietly withdrew from the Paris project, citing “brand risk.”

And Aria Vale?
She became something the world wasn’t sure how to categorize.

Too powerful to pity.
Too honest to discredit.
Too unpredictable to control.

One paper called her “the reluctant icon.”
Another called her “a cautionary tale in heels.”
A third headline simply read:

ARIA: TRUTH, BRUISED AND UNBOWED

The studio got its first threat two days later.

A letter.
Typed.
Cold.

“Shut up or watch your legacy bleed.”

The legal team flagged it. The police logged it. The security firm doubled staff.

But Aria didn’t flinch.

She hung the letter in her office.

Underneath it, she wrote in red ink:

“Not a threat—proof.”

Dominic, however, wasn’t calm.

He was pacing. Watching. Waiting for something to snap.

“You need to leave the city for a while,” he told her.

“I’m not running.”

“This isn’t about pride. It’s about staying alive long enough to keep changing the world.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’m not in danger. My image is. There’s a difference.”

He stepped closer. “Not to people who see women like you as a threat.”

She exhaled. “You’re scared.”

“I’ve always been scared,” he said. “That’s what love is, Aria. Wanting someone to stay standing after every blast—and knowing you can’t always be the wall.”

She softened. Just a little.

“Then don’t be the wall,” she said. “Be the one standing next to me when the dust clears.”

That night, someone set fire to one of Vale Collective’s satellite spaces. Minor damage. No one hurt. Intentional. Meant to send a message.

It did.

The message?

Aria wasn’t going anywhere.

She went there the next morning. Stood in the charred entry. Took photos. Posted one.

“Still standing.” #NoMoreSilence

Dominic watched from his apartment, phone in hand, heart in his throat.

He finally understood.

He couldn’t protect Aria by shielding her.

He had to protect her by believing she knew what the hell she was doing.

And that kind of trust?

Was harder than love.

But it was also realer.