pte

orm's

e couldn't bear to read the messages that remained unanswered on the screen of her phone, which buzzed until the battery died. Her world had become a tightly packed ball of fear by morning. However, the show had to continue. At the theatre, her co

her dressing room. There was no card, just a velvet ribbon tied in a bow like a noose. When she touched the petals, her hands shook. His perfume wafted throu

ctive Alyssa Crane stood with her arms crossed in the theater's wings later that evening, her sharp eyes scanning every nook and cranny. Camille sat next to her and held a coffee cup in each hand as if the warmth alone c

just maybe, Camille was finally

d sister, a journalist who begins to suspect Camille of having a secon

imple: "The truth doesn't wait for comfort." So, when Camille didn't answer her calls, Margot thought it was just another victim of their bitter childhood. They

mething didn

eak from a whistleblower had dropped an encrypted file on her desk at The Examiner. Names, transactions, coded logs. Because she

ties to international finance. Despite this, Camille had never shown any interest in anything even remotely shady,

cuments sai

eries of emails between someone named "CRW" and a faceless diplomat linked to a recent UN bribery probe. Margot's stomac

a forced smile. "Well. You finally crawled out of your moral cave," Camille s

Minimalist. Cold. She wondered how muc

some questions," Mar

they were salvation?" Camille, no. This is different. Your name came up. Wire transfers

d too loudly. "

smile. "Tell me

icked up a crystal glass of something amber-col

no idea what you're looking at." Margot's stomach dropped. Sh

nce passed b

't black and white." "Sometimes you

at?" Margot snapped. "Esp

er a direct sta

bout power-it was about survival. From whom, then? Camille got up before she could say anything

t the fire insid

ing day to do her favor. What she uncovered unsettled her: Camille wasn't just laundering money. She was a link between two i

ecret broker. Possibly a pawn-

onal operatives, sanctioned entities, and whispered threats. Nothing made sense. Her s

elope was lying on the floor when she opened it. Inside

argot's hands shook. She was no longer just a journalist.