EMMA
The aftermath of the Royal Mint felt less like a victory and more like an autopsy.
I stood in the center of the penthouse, surrounded by the remnants of my former life. My drafting table, once the altar of my ambition, was covered in a fine layer of dust and soot. Outside, the London sirens were a constant, mourning wail. The "Corporate Predator" had been bloodied, but the legal and social fallout was a different kind of beast.
My phone—the one I’d finally turned back on—was a graveyard of notifications. Project terminated. Contract voided. Professional inquiry pending. In the eyes of the city, I wasn’t a survivor; I was a scandal. I was the woman associated with a violent, shadowy Frenchman and a series of "unexplained atmospheric disturbances" at a national monument.
My business
