The Fault Lines

Lucian

It started with a whisper.

I was in my office. The morning sun glinted off the skyline. Everything seemed normal.

Or so I thought.

The whisper came in the form of a memo. A low-level assistant, trembling, handed me a printed blog post. “Sir, I—I thought you should see this before the press office responds.”

I took it with practiced calm, scanning the words.

Underdog Designer’s Work Stolen Again? Insider Sources Hint at High-Level Sabotage.

Eloise’s name threaded through the piece, wrapped in speculation, accusation, sympathy. And worse, whispers that my brand was involved.

My jaw clenched. I folded the paper carefully, placed it on my...