“I have, and yes it’s bad. It’s essentially a continuation of the Monday hit piece. They have sources. They’re framing the blackmail as part of a broader pattern of manipulation. The relationship with Ms. Dawson is featured prominently.”
Of course it is.
Gabriella didn’t just drop a bomb.
She gave them a fucking narrative.
“Get Paloma and the crisis team in my office. Twenty minutes.”
I hang up. Through the glass wall, I watch Bree look up from her laptop. She can read the tension in my shoulders from fifty feet away. Anyone could.
I hit the panel to turn the smart glass opaque. Not to hide from her. To prepare for the shitstorm about to land.
Twenty minutes later, my office is crowded. Paloma sits across from me, tablet in hand, circles under her eyes. Larissa is beside her, legal pad filled with notes. The outside crisis firm sent two people whose names I’ve already forgotten.
“Here’s what we recommend.” Paloma taps her tablet screen. “Same playbook as Monday. Legal sends a warning letter to the publication. We don’t deny the core story because it’s true. We emphasize the ten-year gap. Highlight your philanthropic work. Get character references from hospital partners and patient advocates.”
Larissa nods. “We keep Ms. Dawson’s namecompletely out of any statements. No acknowledgment. Let the speculation remain speculation.”
“What about Dom?” I ask. “Did he ever get back to us regarding an official statement about our reconciliation?” We reached out to his team on Monday when the first hit piece came out.
“He did,” Larissa confirms. “We’re drafting one for him to release at this very moment. It’ll be about brotherhood, forgiveness, and moving forward. Nothing too personal.”
I stare at the conference table.
This is the standard corporate crisis playbook.
Spin.
Deflect.
Contextualize.
“Give me a minute.” I stand. “I need coffee.”
Nobody believes me, but they clear out anyway. Professional courtesy for the CEO who’s about to approve his own destruction.
I walk past Bree’s desk without a word and head to the break room.
The vending machine hums in the corner. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead.
Through the window, Manhattan glitters in the darkness like nothing’s wrong.
I hear footsteps behind me.
When I turn around, Bree’s standing in the doorway.
She’s changed out of her work blazer. Just the cream blouse now. The one with the gaps between the third and fourth buttons that drive me crazy.
“You’re making a decision,” she says.
“We’re going to use Paloma’s strategy,” I answer. “Same one we used on Monday. Standard damagecontrol.”
She walks closer. Stops three feet away. Close enough that I can smell her perfume. Vanilla and jasmine. The scent that’s been haunting me for weeks.
“And what do you think of the strategy?” she presses.
I think it’s bullshit.
