Scandal.

Brielle Carter had survived tighter deadlines, nastier bosses, and PR disasters that would make most grown men cry. But nothing—absolutely nothing—could have prepared her for the tsunami that hit her the moment she opened her inbox at 7:14 a.m. on a Thursday.

Subject line:

"Brielle Carter EXPOSED — Sleeping with Married Tech CEO?"

At first, she thought it was spam.

Then came the pings.

Twitter. Instagram. LinkedIn. Slack. Text messages. Missed calls. The entire digital world erupted around her like a volcano set to destroy her life in 280 characters or less.

She clicked the link in the email—stupid, maybe—but curiosity still had her in its claws.

There she was, in high-definition betrayal: laughing too close to her client at a rooftop event, one hand seemingly brushing his arm. Another image showed a cropped bedroom photo—her dress tossed on a chair in the background. Private texts that sounded flirtatious, but out of context. All of it edited with surgical cruelty.

"No," she whispered, her chest tightening.

Then came the cherry on top—quotes attributed to her, saying things she never said. She could feel the walls closing in.

Her phone rang. Caller ID: Nathan Hale.

Of course. The man she once loved. The man who had introduced her to the firm. The man who had just, apparently, thrown her to the wolves.

She didn't answer. She couldn't. Her hands were trembling too badly to swipe the screen.

Ten minutes later, she was standing in the glass office of her boss—well, former boss—Samantha Dray.

Samantha folded her arms across her chest, lips pursed like she was suppressing judgment and rage at the same time.

"Tell me it's fake," she said, her voice low and dangerous.

Brielle could barely speak. "It's fake. You know me."

"I know what the public knows now. What our clients are seeing. What our investors are seeing. Brielle, this isn't just a bad look. This is firestorm material."

You think I slept with a married man to land a contract?" she asked, her voice breaking slightly.

"I don't know what to think," Samantha snapped. "And honestly, it doesn't matter. Perception is everything."

Just like that, her badge was deactivated, her inbox wiped, and her career torched.

Twelve hours later, she sat alone in her apartment. The once-cozy space felt cold. Her phone buzzed non-stop from notifications, each ping another shovel full of digital dirt burying her deeper. What hurt most wasn't the rumors.

It was that people believed them.

People she'd mentored. Clients she'd made millions for. Friends she'd lent rent money to. All gone silent.

She stared at the only message that mattered: "We have to talk. I never meant for it to go this far. — Nathan"

She wanted to scream. Instead, she turned her phone off and curled into her sofa. Then her friend Jade showed up in oversized sunglasses and fury.

"I told you not to date within the damn industry," she snapped, slamming down a bag of takeout and two bottles of wine. "Now look what they've done."

Brielle didn't respond.

She was staring at the headline again.

And again.

And again.

"Do you want me to make a statement?" Jade asked. "We can start with defamation, maybe tease legal action. Make them second-guess their confidence."

"No one's going to care." Her voice came out hollow.

"They will."

"No." She looked up. "They like the story too much. People don't care if it's true. They just want someone to burn."

And they had picked her.

"Tell me you didn't actually sleep with Nathan," Jade said.

"I didn't," Brielle said, her voice hollow. "But that won't matter."

"It matters to me." Jade handed her the coffee, then tossed her a sweater. "You need to get out of here before more vultures show up."

"Where would I even go?"

"My place. Or… somewhere that doesn't come with doorbell ambushes."

Brielle remain silent.

Three weeks later, she was down to ramen, an unpaid power bill, and her last shred of pride.

She walked into a networking mixer in downtown LA with her chin high and her credit card maxed.

If no one would hire her, she'd show up until someone did.

That's when she saw him.

Grayson Westbrook.

In a tailored navy suit, whiskey in hand, smile like sin. CEO of Westbrook Media. King of manipulation. The man whose company ran three of the tabloids that posted about her.

And he was looking right at her.

She froze.

He tilted his head slightly, as if she were an interesting ad he might click. Then, he walked over—slow, confident, and without apology.

"Brielle Carter," he said smoothly. "You're even more impressive in person."

She blinked. "I'd say the same, but flattery isn't my thing."

Neither is modesty. But you seem to be choking on both."

"Would you like a drink?"

She narrowed her eyes. "What do you want?"

He sipped his drink. "To offer you a job."

She laughed. Actually laughed. "Do I look that desperate?"

"Yes," he said without missing a beat. "But desperation's just another word for leverage."

She stepped back, offended and humiliated and oddly intrigued.

"I'm not here to sell my soul," she snapped.

He gave her a slow, deliberate smile. "Who said anything about your soul?"

Brielle spent the entire night pondering Grayson's unexpected job offer. She couldn't shake off the feeling that there was more to it than met the eye. Her curiosity was piqued, and she found herself wondering what Grayson's true intentions were.

Despite not planning to meet him, Brielle's innate curiosity got the better of her. She dressed up and headed to the Westbrook Tower, determined to uncover the truth behind Grayson's true intentions were.

Brielle never liked the Westbrook Tower.

Fifty‑two stories of mirrored arrogance stabbed into the Los Angeles skyline, its lobby floor nothing but black marble and blurred reflections. She had only stepped inside once before, to pitch a campaign for a tech‑security client. Back then she'd noticed how the air changed beyond the revolving doors—colder, crisper, thinned of mercy.

Today the chill felt personal.

"Name?" the security guard asked.

"Brielle Carter. Ten‑thirty with Mr Westbrook."

The guard's brows flicked up before he recovered. So even the lobby knows the scandal. He handed her a visitor badge, eyes softening just enough to suggest pity. She didn't need pity. She needed proof she still belonged in buildings like this.