"Oh, we'll leave," I say, leaning forward. "After you understand exactly what's happening here."
I unlock my phone and turn it toward her, showing her the email that my contact at the Daily Herald forwarded to me—her own words proposing a "juicy story" about Camille's "scheme" to trap three wealthy men. I watch her face as she reads, as the color drains from her cheeks.
"That could be from anyone," she says, but her voice has lost its conviction.
I swipe to the next email. "How about this one?" This time it's her correspondence with a journalist at Metro Magazine, suggesting they investigate Camille's "suspicious rise" in the design world.
"Or this?" Another swipe reveals her text messages with a photographer, arranging payment for following Camille to her doctor's appointments.
"You've been very busy," Tristan observes from his position by the door.
Fiona's composure cracks. "You can't just hack into my accounts! That's illegal!"
"Hack?" I raise an eyebrow. "No one hacked anything. These were given to us willingly by the recipients. People you thought were your allies. Turns out they'd rather keep their jobs than protect you."
Her face contorts. "This is ridiculous. You can't come in here and threaten me."
"Sure we can," I reply, slipping my phone back into my pocket. "Because you’re just a jealous, vindictive woman who couldn't stand to see someone else succeed where you failed."
"Failed?" Her laugh is high and strained. "I didn't fail at anything. I've built a successful business. I have clients that most designers would kill for."
"But you didn't have me," I say simply. "And that bothered you, didn't it? That I chose Camille's firm over yours. That I choseheroveryou."
Something ugly flashes across her face. "She's not that special. She's obviously just willing to spread her legs for anyone with a big enough bank account."
Camille flinches beside me and Julian's hand tightens on her shoulder.
I remain perfectly still, letting the anger wash through me. When I speak, my voice is ice cold. "This is only the tip of the iceberg, Fiona. Make no mistake—we are going to take you down."
She laughs nervously. "With what? A few emails? Please. This will blow over like everything else."
"Will it?" I tilt my head, studying her. "Because right now, three of your biggest clients are being shown evidence that you've stolen design elements from other firms. The Design Board of Ethics is reviewing a complaint about your business practices. And the IRS is looking into some interesting discrepancies in your company's financial records."
Her face goes absolutely still. "You're bluffing."
"Am I?" I smile wickedly. "Your associate Thomas has been very helpful. Turns out he's been keeping detailed records of all your... creative accounting. He was quite happy to share them once we made it worth his while."
Her eyes widen in genuine shock. Thomas is her financial manager, someone she trusts implicitly. Or used to.
"You can't do this," she whispers, the fight draining from her voice. "My reputation?—"
"Your reputation?" Tristan cuts in. "What about Camille's reputation? The one you've been systematically trying to destroy?"
Fiona's eyes dart between us, like a cornered animal searching for escape. I recognize the look—I've seen it countless times across negotiating tables. It's the look of someone who knows they've lost.
"This isn't over," she says, but her voice lacks conviction.
"Itisover," I reply, standing slowly. "It was over the moment you decided to target Camille. You just didn't know it yet."
I button my jacket, a gesture of finality. The satisfaction coursing through me is electric—not just for cornering Fiona, but for defending Camille. For protecting what's mine.
"We'll see ourselves out," I tell her, offering my hand to Camille, who takes it and stands up. "Your lawyer will be hearing from ours soon."
We turn to leave, Fiona's stunned silence following us. Just before we reach the door, I pause and look back at her, still frozen behind her desk.
"You thought you could destroy her reputation to get to me," I say quietly. "But all you did was destroy your own."
I'm about to lead us out when Camille pulls her hand from mine. She turns back to face Fiona, her spine straight, shoulders squared. Something fierce crosses her face—a look I've rarely seen from her, but one that makes my chest tighten with unexpected pride.
