My breath hitched.

I sat down, reeling, not from fear, but from rage. The photo pieces trembled between my fingers, cheap paper carrying a very expensive problem.

This wasn’t office gossip. This was a hit job. Strategic. Calculated. Someone wanted me burned.

Vivian?

The name snapped into my head like headache. Could it be her? It fit her brand well, petty, poisonous, perfectly timed. But then… why hadn’t she gone running to Damian already? If she had this photo, she’d have served it to him on a silver platter by now, complete with her fake pity face.

No. She wouldn’t waste this opportunity.

This was quieter. Smarter.

And that was...