Camille's POV
The file arrived at 9:47 p.m.
I was in my dressing room, wrapped in a silk robe, applying night cream with the kind of slow, deliberate movements that came from years of training myself not to rush. A woman who rushed looked desperate. A woman who rushed made mistakes. I had not made a mistake in four years, and I was not about to start now.
My phone buzzed. Gerald Cross.
"I'm sending something to your secure email," he said. His voice was tight. Excited. The voice of a man who'd found something he knew was valuable. "Open it when you're alone."
"I'm always alone, Gerald. You know that."
A pause. "This is different. This changes everything."
The line went dead. I set my phone down, finished applying my cream with the same unhurried precision, and only then—only when I
