The morning after the deepfake scandal was crushed, a deceptive calm settled over the West Wing. Rain tapped softly against the high arched windows of our private suite, but inside, the air was warm with the lingering heat of our reconciliation.
I sat at my vanity, dressing for an afternoon briefing with the Vane financial council. As I pulled open the lower right velvet drawer of my oak vanity table, a drawer I kept strictly for personal items, my hand caught on something rough and crisp tucked beneath a silk scarf.
I pulled it out.
It was a thick, black leather folder stamped with the gold crest of the Northern Syndicate.
My stomach dropped. I opened the folder to find high-classification manifests: the exact shipping schedules, security patrol rotations, and armory cargo lists for t
