"Wait—slow down. You think Vivian leaked this?" The protective fury in her voice is sharp and focused now. "Why would she—"
"Because she's the only one who calls me ambitious like it's a dirty word." My voice is getting stronger, my marketing brain shifting into crisis mode despite the emotional wreckage. "She's been building a case against me for months. This is just the opening shot."
"Jesus, Sloane." Brynn's voice is tight with understanding. "This isn't random industry gossip. This is targeted."
The memory hits me with vicious clarity. Sarah sitting in her empty office five years ago, packing her career into a cardboard box while whispers followed her down every hallway. It started just like this: a blind item on a gossip blog, making her sound like she was sleeping her way to the top instead of being the most brilliant marketing mind the league had ever seen. Three weeks later, she was gone, blacklisted from every major sports organization in the country.
Different words. Same poison. Same ending.
"Sloane, listen to me," Brynn says, her voice fierce with protective fury. "We're going to figure this out. I'm already working my sources to find out who at Sin Bin took this tip. This isn't over."
But I'm barely listening. My mind is dissecting this like data.
This isn't harmless. This is narrative warfare. A single sentence designed to erode confidence, to shift blame, to cast shadows.
The narrative is clear: I am the liability. The distraction. The professional threat.
And someone, someone tipped them off.
The parking garage? The hallway outside the conference room? That moment in the film room—almost a kiss—before footsteps stopped us cold?
I press a trembling hand to my mouth.
"I have to go," I tell Brynn, my voice hollow.
"Sloane, wait. Don't shut me out." Her voice is steady but urgent. "Not when you need backup the most."
"I can't think straight right now. Everything's spiraling and I—"
"Listen to me." She cuts through my panic with quiet conviction. "You're not alone in this. Whatever happens next, we face it together. That's not negotiable."
But as I'm staring at Brynn's face on the screen, a new call notification slides across the top. The screen shows my work number.
Vivian.
Ice flushes through my veins.
I think of Garrett, probably still asleep, completely unaware that his career is now collateral damage in the war that's about to hit me.
I hang up on my best friend and answer Vivian.
"Sloane McKenzie." The words come out wrong—too high, too tight.
"Good morning," Vivian purrs, every syllable coated in sugar and threat. "Hope I'm not catching you too early. Something's come up. I need you in my office, first thing. We need to discuss the Northstar timeline."
The campaign isn't due for two weeks. We both know it.
This isn't business. This is a summons.
"Of course," I croak. "I'll be right there."
"Wonderful. Looking forward to our chat."
The line goes dead.
Silence floods the apartment. Heavy. Pressing.
I glance at Steve.
