But with a “track record” like hers—years of tax evasion—prison time was inevitable.

The word prison finally broke May. Her legs went weak, and she collapsed to her knees.

“Mia… I’m sorry. Please, I’m begging you—don’t call the police. Don’t report me.”

The twist came so suddenly that no one had time to react. Some of the staff had already begun whispering among themselves. The guests and the director, however, remained relatively composed—anyone who’d survived in the entertainment industry had heard at least a few ugly rumors before.

Compared to May’s apology, I was far more interested in what was inside that document folder.

I held out my hand. The...