The final twenty-four hours were a masterclass in controlled demolition. We didn't sleep. Fueled by cold pizza and the metallic taste of energy drinks, we transformed Julian Harrison’s campaign headquarters into a war room dedicated to a single objective: dismantling Marcus Thorne, piece by piece, on live television.
I was in my element. The fog of my five-year marriage had lifted, revealing a clarity so sharp it felt like a weapon. Every one of Marcus’s psychological tells, every rhetorical crutch he leaned on when cornered, every lie he favored—I knew them all. I had spent years defending them, papering over them, trying to build a fortress of credibility around his weaknesses. Now, I was handing Julian the blueprints to that fortress, along with the precise locations of all its structu
