Chapter Eleven: Headlines, Hangovers, and Hashtags

The headline hit the internet at 7:03 a.m.

By 7:04, it had already trended.

#Eveo
#Thornewinter
#PowerCoupleOfmanhatten

And Evelyn Winterborne was still passed out in bed, tangled in her sheets like a post-gala burrito.

The photo—the photo—was cinematic perfection.

It showed Theodore Thornton, Wall Street's coldest CEO, carrying a clearly tipsy Evelyn in his arms, one arm under her knees, the other wrapped tightly around her waist. Her head was tilted back, eyes closed, hair spilling in loose waves down his arm, while his jaw was clenched and his gaze was laser-focused—protective, furious, and strangely... soft.

But it was the detail that broke the internet: the way his hand was holding the slit of her dress closed, shielding her from the flashing cameras.

There was no mistaking it.

He wasn't just carrying her.

He was taking care of her.

Finance Weekly: Thornton's Soft Side? Who Is the Mystery Woman at the Gala?

PageSix: Thornton's Flame? Evelyn Winterborne Spotted Leaving Gala in His Arms

Twitter (X):
"HE'S CARRYING HER LIKE SHE'S MADE OF GOLD."
"I want a man to look at me like Theo looks at his hungover assistant."
"Is this the beginning of an office romance? We need Evelyn's POV STAT."
"I swear if they're not married by Christmas I will sue."

In the penthouse corner office of Thornton Enterprises, Theodore stared at his phone like it had personally betrayed him.

Across his glass desk lay five tablets, three folders, and an untouched black coffee—all abandoned in favor of the PR team's frantic Slack messages.

PR-Marissa: Theo. We have a situation.
PR-Marissa: Actually, we have several situations.
PR-Marissa: Top trending. Your face. Her legs. The whole damn internet is calling her your fiancée.

"Now that is partially true, she is my 'fiancèe' in their eyes"
He exhaled through his nose, sharp and slow.

He hadn't planned to carry her out of the gala. She had just... tilted. One minute she was swaying by his side, the next she was giggling about shrimp puffs and asking him if the violinist knew how to play "Bohemian Rhapsody."

Then she tripped.

In six-inch heels.

On marble floors.

While her dress threatened to betray national security.

What else could he have done?

Let her crumple like a fallen goddess in front of thirty paparazzi?

No.

He'd picked her up.

Held her close.

And made sure the slit of her dress didn't turn into front-page nudity.

The photos hadn't lied.

He had looked at her like she was precious.

That... was the problem.

"Where's Evelyn?" came a voice from the hallway.

PR Marissa burst in without knocking. "Is she dead? Please say she's not dead. I need her to help fix this."

"She's hungover," Theodore said without looking up.

"She what?"

"She's home."

"With a phone, I assume?"

"She is not to be disturbed."

Marissa stared at him like he'd grown antlers.

"Excuse me?"

"She's not part of this."

"She is the entire story!"

"I'll handle it."

"Mr. Thornton, with all due respect—"

"I said I'll handle it."

There was no room for argument.

Marissa left, muttering something about crisis management and needing a whiskey before noon.

Theodore turned back to his desk.

And nothing was working.

His day was a mess of missed calls, misplaced documents, and no coffee refill. For the first time in his memory, his email inbox had gone untouched for more than thirty minutes.

Because Evelyn wasn't there.

Because Evelyn was somewhere in her tiny, chaotic apartment, nursing a hangover and possibly spooning a bag of frozen peas.

And he couldn't stop checking his phone to make sure she hadn't died in her sleep.

He'd carried her inside last night, helped her get to the couch, and left a bottle of water by her side like some kind of... human being.

A mistake.

A dangerous one.

Meanwhile, in Brooklyn...

Evelyn groaned as sunlight slapped her through the blinds.

Her tongue felt like sandpaper. Her brain was doing the samba against her skull.

She reached blindly for her phone and groaned again when the bright screen seared her retinas.

What the hell had she drunk?

She remembered the gala. The steak. The champagne. The laughter.

Theodore's hand at her back.

The way he whispered in her ear like he wasn't the coldest man alive.

And then... nothing.

She opened Instagram.

And her soul left her body.

Her face was everywhere.

Her inbox was full of messages.

Her DMs had exploded.

Her name was trending.

"WHAT THE HELL?!"

The headline photo stared back at her like a personal insult.

Her. In his arms.

His hand—God, his hand—holding her dress shut like some Victorian gentleman in a James Bond tuxedo.

The comments were insane.

Strangers were writing fanfiction about them already.

Someone had made a playlist called Evelyn x Theo's Love Story.

Someone else had designed a fake wedding invite.

"Oh no no no no," she groaned, flopping back onto her pillow. "I'm going to die. I'm going to crawl into a trash can and disintegrate."

Then she paused.

He carried her.

Out of a gala.

While making sure she didn't flash anyone.

And she... barely remembered any of it.

But it explained why her dress was draped carefully on the back of her couch.

It explained the Advil and water on her nightstand.

And it explained why she'd woken up warm, safe, and covered with a blanket that definitely wasn't hers.

"...What the hell, Theodore."

Back at the office, he was one mistake away from snapping.

His schedule was off by five minutes.

The coffee was too weak.

And no one had insulted his suit all morning.

By 2PM, he gave up and texted her:

Are you alive?

A pause.

Then:

Barely. I think my soul left my body but my hair still looks incredible so that's something.

I told you not to mix champagne and tequila.

You didn't say it out loud.

I shouldn't have to.

You shouldn't have carried me like a damn movie scene.

You shouldn't have looked like that while unconscious in silk.

A pause.

His eyes lingered on the screen.

No reply came.

Just a typing bubble.

Then gone.

Then typing again.

...Thank you. For not letting me flash the entire financial elite.

You're welcome. Try not to get carried next time.

No promises, boss man.

He stared at the screen for a moment too long.

Then finally, with a slow exhale, he smiled.

The tiniest curve of lips.

The only person who could throw his world off track... was the one he chose not to fire.

End of Chapter Eleven