Brushstrokes of the unseen
Then—
“Open up, Sophia.”
The voice was calm, but she recognized the undercurrent of frustration.
Evelyn. Her assistant. Her friend. Her shield.
Sophia opened the door. Evelyn stood there in a sleek grey suit, tablet in one hand, coffee in the other, eyes sharp but worried.
“You look like hell,” she said, stepping in.
“I feel worse.”
Evelyn set the coffee down. “Do you want the truth or comfort first?”
“Truth.”
“You’re trending everywhere. Investors are calling. The board wants an emergency meeting by noon. And,” she hesitated, “someone leaked a photo.”
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