The bomb detonated at dawn.
Isabella saw it first on her phone, a push notification from a business gossip site she’d never subscribed to. The headline was a punch to the gut: HALE’S ‘PROJECT’ GETS PERSONAL SLEEPOVER.
The photo was grainy, taken from a distance through the penthouse’s floor-to-ceiling windows, but it was unmistakable. There she was, a tiny figure swallowed by Xavier’s sweater, bent over the dining table awash in lamplight. He stood behind her, his body angled toward her work, one hand resting on her shoulder. It was a moment of exhausted collaboration, and a shared burden. The lens and the caption twisted it into something sordid, a secret rendezvous. The timestamp read 2:14 AM.
Sleepover.
The term "sleepover" branded her professional reputation. All the work, the sacr
