Laurent Enterprises’ Reputational Hazard: CEO’s Romantic Entanglement with Investigating Journalist Raises Ethical Questions
I read it twice. Then a third time, my coffee growing cold beside me while Chicago’s skyline brightened through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
The leak traced back to a lobbyist connected to Marcus Thornton’s circle — the same people who’d been whispering about Emilia at galas weeks ago. They’d taken their campaign public, weaponizing her success against both of us. The memo they’d obtained painted her as compromised, suggested her reporting was influenced by pillow talk and preferential access.
It was bullshit. Anyone who’d spent five minutes with Emilia Rivera knew she couldn’t be bought, bribed, or persuaded intoanything she didn’t want. The woman had turned down Victor Corsetti’s offer to destroy me when she’d had every reason to take it.
But bullshit, properly packaged, could still draw blood.
My phone buzzed with the first of what would become an avalanche. Daniel’s name flashed across the screen.
“I’ve seen it,” I said before he could speak.
“Sir, the board members are already calling. Charles Preston wants an emergency session moved up to this afternoon. He’s claiming this validates his concerns about your judgment.”
Charles. Of course. The man had been gunning for my chair since before Emilia’s first article dropped. Now he had ammunition wrapped in a bow.
“What’s the temperature?”
A pause. Daniel never paused unless the news was genuinely bad. “Mixed. Some members are defending you — citing the Corsetti exposure as proof the relationship hasn’t compromised company interests. Others are calling it a liability regardless of outcome.”
“And the swing votes?”
“Undecided. Waiting to see which way the wind blows.”
I ended the call and stared at the leaked memo glowing on my laptop screen. The instinct hit me immediately and with full force — handle this alone. Bury the lobbyist. Leverage every connection I had to kill the story’s oxygen before it spread further. I knew exactly which calls to make, which favors to collect, which pressure points would make this disappear before noon.
Six months ago, I wouldn’t have hesitated.
I pulled up her contact and typed three words before I could talk myself out of it.
I have a problem.
The response came faster than I expected.
Tell me.
Two words. No judgment, no demands for context she was probably already piecing together from her own feeds. Just a door held open.
Leaked memo. Crain’s. They’re calling you a reputational hazard.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.
I saw it. I’m coming to you.
Something loosened in my chest that I hadn’t realized was clenched. The old instinct whispered that I was being weak — that reaching for her was a vulnerability waiting to be exploited. But I’d been exploiting vulnerabilities my entire life, and the life I’d built from that principle was an empire I was in the process of deliberately dismantling.
Emilia didn’t want my protection. She wanted my partnership.
I was still learning the difference.
The boardroom filled faster than anticipated, suits and skepticism arranging themselves around the polished table while I stood at the windows, watching the city I’d helped reshape spread beneath me. Daniel had positioned himself near the door, tablet in hand, a study in controlled anxiety.
Charles Preston arrived last, making an entrance of it. Silver-haired, impeccably tailored, wearing his self-righteousness like a designer accessory. He’d been on this board since before I consolidated majority control, and he’d never forgiven me for not needing his approval.
“Sebastian.” He didn’t offer his hand. “I assume you’ve read the piece.”
“I’m familiar with it.”
