Chapter 13 - Rome
Rome had been four years ago.
Before Khloe.
Before the wedding.
Before the foundation.
Before Marcus understood that loneliness could make even powerful men careless.
He sat beside Khloe’s bed as dawn pressed gray light against the hospital windows.
Khloe held the phone in her hand.
Ask Marcus what happened in Rome.
The words sat between them like a third person.
Marcus did not reach for excuses.
That, at least, was new.
“I need to tell you everything,” he said.
Khloe’s face was unreadable.
“Yes.”
He took a breath.
“Four years ago, Thorne Medical was negotiating a distribution agreement in Italy. Carlo Rossi hosted several events. Isabella was there.”
Khloe watched him.
“I didn’t know about the old marriage arrangement then. Not fully. I knew our families had history, but not that level.”
“Did you sleep with her?”
The question was quiet.
Direct.
Marcus closed his eyes.
“No.”
Khloe’s shoulders loosened a fraction.
But not enough.
“What happened?”
“We kissed.”
The monitor beeped steadily.
Khloe looked away.
Marcus continued because stopping would be cowardice.
“It was after a dinner. I had been drinking. She followed me onto a terrace. She said our families expected us to be close. I thought she meant business. Then she kissed me.”
Khloe’s voice was flat.
“And you kissed her back.”
“For a moment. Then I stopped it.”
“Did she think it meant something?”
“Yes.”
“Did you let her?”
Marcus swallowed.
“I avoided dealing with it. I left Rome two days later and never discussed it again.”
Khloe laughed softly.
It hurt more than anger.
“You ghosted a woman who believed she had been promised your life.”
“I didn’t know she believed that.”
“But you knew she wanted more.”
Marcus had no defense.
“Yes.”
Khloe closed her eyes.
“That is the first honest answer you’ve given without softening it.”
He looked down.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
But knowing did not mean forgiving.
Gabriel entered quietly, saw their faces, and paused.
“Bad time?”
Khloe opened her eyes.
“No. Perfect time. Apparently, we’re cleaning out every closet.”
Gabriel looked at Marcus.
Marcus said, “Rome.”
Gabriel’s expression darkened with understanding.
“She’ll use it,” Gabriel said.
“She already is,” Khloe replied.
By noon, Isabella’s legal team leaked exactly what Khloe expected.
A “source close to the Rossi family” claimed Isabella and Marcus had shared a romantic history, that Khloe had long been jealous, and that the hospital incident followed an emotional confrontation about “unresolved betrayal.”
The internet did what it always did.
It chose sides before facts finished putting on shoes.
Old photos surfaced.
Marcus and Isabella in Rome, standing too close on a balcony.
Isabella touching his lapel.
Marcus looking tired and half-smiling.
None of it proved what people said it proved.
That did not matter.
Khloe’s name trended by evening.
Gold-digger.
Jealous wife.
Pregnancy trap.
Drama queen.
Marcus watched the words appear and felt something inside him go still.
He had spent his career controlling narratives.
Now he understood what it felt like when strangers built one over your body while you were still breathing beneath it.
Khloe did not cry when she saw the posts.
That worried him more.
She simply put the phone down.
“Release a statement,” she said.
Naomi, on video, leaned closer.
“From Marcus?”
“No,” Khloe said. “From me.”
Marcus turned.
“Khloe, you don’t have to—”
She looked at him.
He stopped.
Naomi asked, “What do you want it to say?”
Khloe thought for a moment.
Then she spoke.
“I was attacked while pregnant in a private hospital suite. Security footage has been turned over to law enforcement. Any attempt to turn violence into gossip is exactly why women stay silent. I will not.”
Naomi wrote quickly.
Khloe continued.
“My marriage is not on trial. My medical condition is not entertainment. My child is not leverage.”
Marcus stared at her.
She finished.
“And to every person being pressured to lie: keep your proof. Tell the truth. You are not alone.”
The statement went live at 6:03 p.m.
By 6:20, nurses began sharing it.
By 6:45, women who had survived public smear campaigns began reposting it.
By 7:30, the story changed.
Not completely.
But enough.
The comments were no longer only about Marcus and Isabella.
They were about footage.
Power.
Witnesses.
Pregnancy.
Pressure.
And truth.
At 8:12 p.m., Mina Cho, the junior photographer, posted one sentence on her private account.
I saw enough to know Khloe Thorne is telling the truth.
She deleted it ten minutes later after receiving threats.
But screenshots had already spread.
By midnight, three more staff members contacted Detective Ortiz.
At 1:15 a.m., Bellweather Strategic’s junior analyst sent Naomi an encrypted email.
Subject: I was told to erase the four seconds.
Attached were internal messages.
One of them named Graham Vale.
Another named Carlo Rossi.
The third contained a line that made Marcus’s blood go cold.
If the wife loses the baby, public sympathy must be redirected toward Isabella immediately.
Khloe read it once.
Then she placed the tablet down.
Marcus expected tears.
Instead, she said, “Now we stop defending.”
Gabriel looked at her.
“What do you want to do?”
May you like
Khloe’s eyes were calm.
“We hunt.”
