“It’s also bullshit, and you know it,” I said, my tone leaving no room for argument. “This isn’t about morality; it’s about brand anxiety. I want to fight it, Marcus. I want to appeal the termination.”
I could almost hear him sigh through the phone. “Sean, that’s a long, expensive, and very public battle. Are you sure you want to open that can of worms right now? Their pockets are deeper than yours.”
“I’m sure,” I said, my voice cold and hard. “Here’s the angle. First, this isn’t a criminal matter. This is my private life being sensationalized by tabloids. There’s a strong argument to be made that this doesn’t meet the legal threshold for ‘public disrepute.’ Second, I want you to start compiling a list of every other author, actor, and public figure they have under contract who has had a public affair, a messy divorce, or a DUI in the last five years. I want to see how this ‘morality clause’ has been applied to them. My guess? It hasn’t. This is a selective application of a vague clause, and it stinks of a double standard.”
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line, and then I heard a low chuckle. It was the sound of a lawyer smelling blood in the water.
“A selective application argument,” Marcus said, a new energy in his voice. “I like it. It’s aggressive. It’s risky. They’ll try to drag every skeleton out of your closet.”
“Let them try,” I said. “My life is already all over the internet. What more can they find?” I thought of Beth, of the vicious headlines aimed at her. “And Marcus? I want to make it clear in our initial appeal that the nature of the press coverage has been egregiously biased and misogynistic, specifically targeting Ms. MacLeod. I want to put them on the defensive for aligning their brand with that kind of gutter journalism.”
“Now you’re playing hardball,” Marcus said, and I could hear the grin in his voice. “Okay, Sean. You want to fight, we’ll fight. I’ll start drafting the appeal and have my team begin thediscovery process on their other talent contracts. This is going to get ugly.”
“I know,” I said. “Let’s give them a war.”
I hung up the phone, a grim satisfaction settling over me. The path forward was a minefield, but it was a war I had no intention of losing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
BETH
The next day,I walked into the Hillsdale Foundation a different woman. The whispers still followed me, the sideways glances still stung, but they no longer felt like assaults. They felt like background noise. I had a mission, a real one, handed to me by Ms. Henderson herself. She hadn’t just given me a new assignment; she had given me a weapon, and I intended to learn how to use it.
My desk, once a symbol of my envelope-stuffing purgatory, now felt like a command center. Abigail had delivered three large document boxes filled with the “lapsed donor” files. A graveyard of old correspondence and financial reports. It was a puzzle, and I felt a flicker of my old, sharp-edged self from old days return. The part of me that liked to figure things out, to see the patterns others missed.
I dove in, my focus absolute. For hours, it was a blur of data entry as I created a master spreadsheet, cross-referencing names, dates, and donation amounts. My first goal was toidentify any common threads, and one name kept appearing on the most questionable files: Garrett.
I flagged every lapsed donor file he had personally managed. There were seven. The pattern was immediate and glaring: lavish expenses for "donor cultivation" trips that resulted in precisely zero donations. A five-star "retreat" in the Hamptons. A week-long "fact-finding" trip to Miami with two first-class tickets. I pulled up the main department calendar from the month of the Miami trip, my access surprisingly unrestricted, and filtered for his schedule. He had indeed been blocked out for "Miami Outreach." My fingers flew across the keyboard as I searched the same dates for anyone else.
Bingo.
Right next to his name, also blocked out for the exact same week with the exact same note, was another name: Kyra.
My internal bullshit detector, finely tuned from years of navigating high-society hypocrisy, was screaming. It wasn't enough, though. I needed context. I decided to pay a single, strategic visit to the office's unofficial historian.
I found Abigail in the break room, a teacup cradled in her hands. “Me again,” I said with an apologetic smile. “I’m noticing a pattern in these lapsed files, and I could use some of the office's historical context. Garrett and Kyra seem to have attended a lot of ‘conferences’ in the same cities at the same time.”
Abigail snorted into her tea. “Common? Love, their ‘fact-finding’ trip to Miami was the talk of the office for a month. A trip for two, in February, that resulted in precisely zero facts and one very lapsed donor. We all just assumed it was one of Kyra’s ‘special projects’.” She made little air quotes with her fingers.
“Special projects?” I pressed, feigning innocence.
“Let’s just say Kyra guards her position as head of the gala committee like a dragon guards its treasure,” Abigail whispered. “She’s very… dedicated. And very close to certain people.”
That was all the confirmation I needed. I returned to my desk, the pieces clicking into place. The expensive dinners for two, always expensed by Garrett, on nights when Kyra’s calendar showed a "late work meeting." The hotel rooms booked with "king bed" specifications. It wasn’t just sloppy; it was blatant. They weren’t even trying to hide it. Why would they? Who would ever be given the access and the time to sift through this forgotten graveyard of files except… me.
The thought sent a chill down my spine. Was this a test from Ms. Henderson? Had she handed me a loaded gun just to see if I was smart enough to figure out which way to point it?
Just then, Kyra herself swept past my desk, her perfume a suffocating cloud of expensive floral notes. She shot me a look of pure, unadulterated loathing. But this time, I didn’t flinch. I just smiled, a small, secret smile, and gave her a polite little nod. I watched as her own expression faltered, a flicker of confusion and unease in her eyes before she turned away.
Ah, I thought with a surge of triumphant adrenaline.So that’s what panic looks like on you.
I was packingup my bag, a current of triumphant energy still humming through me, when my desk phone chirped. It was Ms. Henderson’s extension.
“Elisabeth, could you pop into my office for a moment before you leave?” she asked, her voice its usual clipped, professional tone.
My stomach did a nervous flip, but I pushed it down. I had done good work today. This was probably just a standard check-in.
“Of course, Ms. Henderson. On my way.”
