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“And pull her travel records,” I add. “Credit card statements, hotel bookings. I want to know if she ever crossed paths with Wren—Ms. Sinclair—before this mess started.”

“You think they have history?” Marcus asks.

“I think nothing’s coincidental in cases like this.”

The meeting breaks up, my team filing out with their assignments. I remain behind, staring at the photos of Camille Ross pinned to our evidence board. I’ve watched her tearful videos claiming victimhood but I don't buy it. Not for a second. It’s insane to me how everyone else can’t see through the faux tears.

I gulp down my cup of coffee which have now turned lukewarm. But public opinion is fickle and whatever is trending is truth to most people. If this is an orchestrated attack, whoever the person leading is must be well-versed in stirring the public.

My phone buzzes with a text from Jen:How's it going? Wren okay?

I reply:Working on it. She's safe.

What I don't tell my daughter is how my professional detachment is slipping by the hour. How watching Wren maintain her composure through the vitriol stirs something in me I thought long buried.

It'spast nine when I get back home. I head straight to my home office. The house is quiet after driving Wren home that evening to assess her place and meet her son. The contrast between the two homes is stark. Hers is filled with toys, colorful artwork, and the constant background noise of life being lived. Mine is a large and quiet bachelor’s den. Functional, not lived in.

I pour myself two fingers of bourbon and open my laptop. The amber liquid gives a pleasurable burn as I settle into the familiar routine of late-night analysis.

The secured folder contains every threatening message Wren has received. They're organized by date, each one cataloged with its method of delivery and any forensic evidence my team could gather. Some are standard internet vitriol, the kind any public figure receives. Others are more sinister.

I scroll through them again, looking for something I missed. Social media hate, angry emails, the occasional disturbing letter. But there's a pattern in the escalation. The timing. The specificity.

One message catches my eye again:“You can't hide behind your fancy creams forever. I know where you sleep.”

It arrived the day after an exclusive home tour was published in a design magazine. The photo they ran showed her bedroom window. Not a coincidence.

I pull up the magazine spread on my second monitor. Wren standing in her bedroom, sunlight streaming through the distinctive bay window. The same window is visible from the street. A security nightmare that I've already addressed with additional monitoring.

My phone buzzes.

Cal:Found something. Camille Ross had dinner at Jerkins three months ago. Guess who else was there that night?

I wait, taking another sip of bourbon. The ice clinks against the glass in the silence of my empty house.

Marlowe Skye. Famous actress. Private room. No photos, but confirmed by staff.

Another text with a link to an interview of Marlowe Skye.

Search Marlowe Skye and Wren Sinclair. They were once co-stars and she launched her skincare line, Nova Grey, not too long ago. It hasn’t been well to match its enormous investment.

Marlowe Skye. I look her up. A glamorous and stunning A-list actress. Wren's former co-star from her acting days. I scroll the internet, consuming news about the actress. She’s no stranger to drama at all. From being embroiled in scandals on set to accepting an award half-drunk, her power couple relationship with a famous actor crumbling two years ago, to the actor getting married to another actress.

Marlowe Skye’s public persona is chaotic. I scroll through the news of her new acting project directed by acclaimed director, Peeta Eduardo, and the new product launch of her beauty line. It seems to be in line with her revamped public image to be classy yet ambitious. I click on an article where the writer talks about the new product, which has been gaining buzz in light of the disappointing reveals concerning Lemon LLC. The new Nova Grey light-weight miracle face cream is described as the saving grace of the company, which hasn’t performed as well as expected.

A piece clicks into place. The orchestrated media attacks. The inside information. The timed leaks.

I pull up Marlowe's social media profiles. Her last interview was two months ago before the scandal broke where she addressed consumer’s comments on her product. On the surface, it appears like a normal interview but there is a recentrepost of the article. A part where she addressed the subject of truth and accountability in the beauty industry.

No direct mentions of Wren or Lemon LLC, of course. Too smart for that. But I don’t miss that the timing of her vague posts about “integrity” align with the attacks on Wren.

I lean into my chair, taking a long swallow of bourbon, letting it burn down my throat. My job is to keep clients safe. But this? This is different. Personal vendettas played out in the public eye, targeting not just Wren's business but her reputation, and her peace of mind.

I pull up Wren's file again, studying her face in the profile photo. The confident smile in this photo against the tired smile she wears of late. The vulnerability she's trying so hard to hide. During my initial assessment, I saw beyond the polished CEO exterior. I saw a woman fighting to protect what she's built from nothing.

What's Marlowe's angle? Professional jealousy? A business rivalry? Something more personal from their Hollywood days?

I make a note to have Marcus dig deeper into their shared history. There's always something. Perhaps an old slight, a role stolen, a man caught between them. All feuds spring from somewhere.