The silence in the private lounge was unnerving, thick with anticipation and electric with fury. Damien Sinclair stood by the tinted window, overlooking the night-streaked skyline of downtown Los Angeles. His phone buzzed on the marble table behind him.
“It’s confirmed,” Spencer, his head of security, said as he entered the room, grim. “It was Miles.”
Damien didn’t turn. His jaw clenched, hands in his pockets to keep from breaking something. “Celeste’s assistant?”
Spencer nodded. “He sold the encrypted call logs to The Prism. It’s how they knew exactly when she was vulnerable, after the gala, during the press shoot, even before the awards.”
Damien turned, slow and deadly. “Find him. Don’t just fire him, make sure he never works in this industry again. I want every bridge he’s ever had
