"I need to call my PR director," Liam said immediately, already pulling out his phone.
"Wait, maybe she won't?—"
"She will." His fingers were already flying across his screen. "Kate doesn't make threats she doesn't intend to follow through on. We have maybe thirty minutes before she posts it strategically—probably through a third party for deniability."
"You don't know that?—"
"I've known Kate my entire life.” He pressed the phone to his ear. “Mariska? We have a situation. Meet us at the team suite at the Mandarin Oriental in fifteen minutes." He ended the call and turned to Libby. "We need to leave. Now."
"I can't just leave—I need Jane," Libby said, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. "I need my sister."
"I'll handle it." He was already texting rapidly. "But we need to get you out of here before anyone else sees you in my jacket and draws conclusions."
He guided her through a service corridor she hadn't known existed, his hand light on her back. They emerged in a loading dock where a black town car was somehow already waiting.
"How did?—"
"I always have an exit strategy at these events." He opened the door for her. "Get in."
The ride to the Mandarin Oriental was silent except for both their phones buzzing constantly. Libby ignored hers, still processing how quickly everything had spiraled. The Steel's corporate suite was exactly what she'd expected—sleek, minimal, expensive—with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. The team kept it for visiting VIPs and, apparently, crisis management.
Within minutes, Mariska Keane, the Steel’s PR director, arrived with two members of the communications team, all still in their gala attire. Jane burst through the door moments later, Chase hovering behind her.
"Libby, what happened? Chase said there was an emergency?—"
"Thanks for bringing her," Liam said to Chase, who nodded and stepped back into the hallway, closing the door behind him.
"Kate Davenport has a compromising photo," Liam said without preamble. "She'll release it within the hour."
"I stepped on my hem and the strap broke," Libby explained quickly. "Liam lent me his jacket. That's all."
The PR director was already pulling up her tablet. "Show me the angles, where you were standing."
They recreated the positioning as best they could remember while Mariska assessed with professional calculation.
"We need to get ahead of this," she said. "If we announce it ourselves first—say you've been quietly dating, keeping it professional, planning to go public after the playoffs—then it's a love story. If Kate leaks it, it's an ethics scandal."
"That's insane," Libby protested.
"It's practical," Liam said. "The alternative is your career becoming collateral damage."
"But what do you get out of it? Your career isn't threatened by this."
"No," he agreed. "But Kate would use this to create maximum chaos during the most important games of the season. She'd feed stories to the media, create distractions, turn it into a circus." He paused. "And despite what you might think, I don't believe you should lose your career because Kate has decided you're in Anne's way."
The PR director was already typing. "I can have a statement ready in five minutes?—"
Libby's phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. And again.
Her stomach dropped as she looked at the screen. The photo was already spreading—posted thirty seconds ago by an anonymous gossip account with enough followers to ensure it would go viral within minutes.
"Too late," Liam said, seeing her expression. "She moved faster than I expected."
Her editor was calling. Text messages were starting to flood in. In the photo, they looked like lovers caught in a private moment—Libby's face upturned toward his, her lips slightly parted, eyes heavy-lidded from champagne and proximity. Liam was looking down at her with an expression no camera had ever caught before, something unguarded and intent. His hands gripped the jacket where he held it closed, as though he were a second away from closing the distance between them. The darkness of the gallery created a sense of secrecy, and the way their bodies angled toward each other suggested they'd been about to kiss—or just finished. Liam's jacket around her shoulders looked exactly like what a woman would wear after... The implications were unmistakable.
"We pivot to reactive mode," the PR director said calmly. "Same story, but now we're 'confirming' rather than announcing. You've been dating quietly, the photo forced your hand, you're asking for privacy during the playoffs."
"I'll be pulled from the beat," Libby said, her phone continuing to vibrate with her editor's calls.
