She’d done it without me.
That shouldn’t have landed the way it did. We’d agreed to work together, but somewhere between last night’s strategysession and this morning’s headlines, she’d made her choice. Her story. Her terms. Her byline.
I should have been furious. Instead, standing at my window watching Chicago come fully awake beneath me, I found myself smiling at my own reflection in the glass.
She’d beaten me to the punch.
Damned if I didn’t admire her for it.
My phone buzzed. This time I looked.
Emilia:On my way. We should talk.
Three words that could mean anything. My gut tightened with something that had stopped pretending it was anything other than anticipation.
“Mr. Laurent.” Daniel appeared in the doorway, tablet in hand. “The Tribune is requesting a statement. So is the Journal, Bloomberg, and approximately seventeen other outlets.”
“Tell them we’re cooperating fully with any investigation and that Laurent Enterprises is committed to transparency.”
Daniel’s eyebrow lifted a fraction. “That’s surprisingly diplomatic.”
“I’m feeling diplomatic.”
“You’re never diplomatic.” A pause. “Is this about Ms. Rivera’s article?”
“Everything is about Ms. Rivera.” I turned from the window. “Clear my morning. When she arrives, send her straight up.”
“The board?—”
“Can wait.”
He disappeared, and I was left alone with the weight of what was coming. The article had named Richard as the primary architect of the corruption scheme. Connected him to Victor. Detailed the kickbacks, the substandard materials, the bribed inspectors.
What it hadn’t done was destroy me.
She could have. The evidence she’d gathered over the past weeks gave her everything she needed to bury Laurent Enterprises entirely. Instead she’d been precise. Careful. She’d cut out the cancer while leaving the body intact — not because I deserved the mercy, but because the truth as she’d found it didn’t require my destruction to be complete.
I didn’t know what to do with that.
The elevator chimed twenty minutes later.
She strode into my office like she owned it — her hair still damp from a shower, wearing jeans and a sweater that made her look younger than her years, none of the professional armor she usually carried. No blazer. No notebook held like a shield. Just Emilia, walking toward me with her chin up and her eyes steady and the particular expression of a woman who had done something difficult and was prepared to stand behind it.
“You did it,” I said.
She stopped three feet from my desk. “I did.”
“Without telling me.”
“Without asking permission.” Her chin lifted. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Yes.” She crossed her arms. “You would have tried to control the narrative. Managed the fallout. Made it about protecting your empire instead of exposing the truth.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Don’t I?” She met my gaze without flinching. “Sebastian, you’ve spent thirty years building walls. Control is your default setting. I couldn’t risk you compromising the story to save your reputation.”
