The conference room smelled faintly of polished wood and stale coffee. Malia sat at the long, sleek table, her fingers drumming an impatient rhythm against its surface. Her gaze was fixed on the door, waiting for her contact to arrive. She had trusted him once—trusted him with more than she had given anyone in recent weeks—but now, doubt gnawed at her insides.
It had started with whispers. Subtle, quiet rumors that didn't quite add up. Malia had dismissed them at first, assuming they were nothing more than the background noise that came with her position. But the longer the smear campaign against her escalated, the more she realized that Evelyn's influence wasn't just confined to the media. It stretched deeper, into places she hadn't expected. And now, after all the setbacks, Malia was beginning to wonder if someone she had considered a trusted ally might be the one behind the scenes, quietly feeding Evelyn's machine.