ETHAN'S POV

I step into the Lock Innovations PR war room, the usual buzz replaced by tense silence. Michael Grayson is already there, laptop open, brow furrowed in that way that makes me trust he’s taking the gravity of the situation seriously. The viral photo of me and Sophie Miller has exploded across every feed, every tabloid outlet, and a few carefully planted “influencers” are spinning the story into a frenzy.

I rub my forehead, resisting the urge to throttle the first person who dares suggest it’s “just a misunderstanding.” The problem isn’t perception—it’s timing. One poorly handled response, and everything I’ve worked for, every step I’ve taken toward stabilizing this company on my own terms, collapses into a media circus.

Michael doesn’t waste a second. “Here’s the triage,” he says, clicking through a slide deck. “Immediate actions: we issue a brief internal memo to reassure staff. Simultaneously, we prepare a denial targeting the social feeds. Legal has drafted a cease-and-desist for Jasper Wade. And—” He hesitates, the faintest flicker of concern in his eyes. “—we have to control optics fast. Investors are nervous. Boards hate ambiguity. If this spreads another day unaddressed, we could face serious destabilization.”

I stare at him. Triage. Control optics. Mitigate damage. That’s all they see. All the calculations, the algorithms, the strategic projections—it’s all irrelevant when the tabloids hold the megaphone.

I lean back, gripping the edge of the table. “Michael, you know as well as I do that this isn’t a casual scandal. Jasper’s framing is meticulous. Look at the timestamp, the blurring—it’s doctored. Sophie doesn’t deserve this, and neither do I. I won’t let the optics dictate truth.”

He nods slowly, understanding the weight behind the words. Michael is one of the few people who can read between my lines without me spelling it out. The room feels smaller, quieter, because he gets it. He’s not just an ally; he’s a stabilizing force. The kind of presence that makes me remember why I trusted him with this company in the first place.

Before I can respond further, my phone buzzes. Victor. The board chair, my father, the man who raised me with a mix of cold precision and relentless expectation. I swipe to answer, expecting his familiar edge.

“Ethan,” he says, voice clipped and measured. “You need to apologize. Publicly. Today. The board is in uproar, investors are anxious, and the optics of your ‘entanglement’ are unacceptable. You will stabilize this. If you do not, I will take measures to protect the company. Consider a merger with RenTech—done quietly—to contain any further damage.”

I close my eyes for a moment, inhaling slowly. His words are sharp, but I’ve learned to parse the threat from the command. Victor’s style is never soft, never nuanced. It’s a direct challenge wrapped in the guise of concern.

“I won’t apologize for something that didn’t happen,” I say, voice steady, though my fingers tighten around the phone. “There’s more here, and you know it. If we take shortcuts, we lose control of the narrative entirely. And it won’t stop at me or the board. Sophie is at risk if we misstep. I won’t compromise her safety for optics.”

A pause. Then: “Ethan, do not make me repeat myself. Apologize, or I will enforce the merger. You are not the final authority in this company. Remember that.”

I hang up without another word. Control. Isolation. The words settle in my chest like concrete. Victor demands obedience; the board demands results; the tabloids demand scandal. And I… I demand the truth, no matter how messy.

I glance at Michael. He knows. His expression is unreadable, but I see the subtle nod—acknowledgment that we’ll navigate this together. At least I’m not entirely alone. But the isolation remains, wrapped in layers of authority and expectation.

“Your father wants a public apology,” Michael says softly, almost like a cautionary whisper. “And he wants a merger as damage control. Board wants the same. Investors are jittery. If you want my honest opinion… there’s no middle ground. You go public, you risk your credibility. You stay silent, and the optics worsen.”

I lean forward, pressing a hand to my temple. “Then we create our own narrative. Not his, not the board’s, not the tabloids’.” My voice hardens. “We control the story before anyone else spins it. And we protect Sophie while we do it.”

Michael’s eyes flick up, sharp now. “You know that’s risky. You’re talking about creating a cover, a… decoy. Something that looks authentic. It’s clean, but it’s deceptive enough to stabilize perception.”

I stare at him. “A decoy?”

He clicks to a slide, revealing what he calls the “Algorithm of Influence.” Charts, analytics, and predictive engagement models that track which employees or external figures could provide the most credible distraction in the media. “We run simulations,” Michael explains. “We find someone with visibility, trustworthiness, and credibility. Ideally someone whose public persona will absorb attention and stabilize sentiment. We’ve filtered the candidates. The top match… is Liana Hansley.”

I blink. Liana Hansley—the marketing director who humiliated me in front of the board yesterday, who’s brilliant and untouchable in her own right. My gut twists. She’s smart, principled, and she’d never agree. But Michael doesn’t choose randomly. He’s about logic, data, and optics.

“Liana?” I repeat, skeptical. “There’s literally hundreds of women in the company. Why her?”

Michael leans back, fingers steepled. “It’s not random. Look—credibility, visibility, competence, temperament, and public engagement. Liana hits every one of those points better than anyone else. She’s respected by the board, visible to the media through her campaigns, and—most importantly—her prior boardroom clash with you actually works in our favor. That friction creates subtle optics that will read as authentic, not staged. She’s principled enough to resist without alignment of incentives, yet pragmatic enough to negotiate if we frame this correctly. Our simulations show she’ll stabilize sentiment faster and with fewer risks than anyone else.”

I exhale, tension easing into calculated resolve. Cold, clinical, data-driven reasoning—it makes sense. Liana isn’t chosen for convenience or vanity. She’s the optimal solution, a professional who maximizes credibility while minimizing risk.

“And she’ll agree?” I ask quietly.

Michael shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching in dry humor that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Not if we ask nicely. But if anyone can be approached professionally and sold on the purpose—helping BrightSteps, maybe even protecting her own interests—it’s her. She’s principled, yes, but she’s also pragmatic. There’s a way to frame this that aligns her goals with the public narrative.”

I nod slowly. Isolation presses in again—the weight of my father’s expectations, the board’s impatience, the tabloids’ hungry eyes—but now it’s paired with an unfamiliar, sharp edge of calculation. This plan… messy as it is… might be the only way to contain the scandal without destroying everything I’ve built.

The storm is here, swirling around me. And somehow… the one person I never expected to be part of it is already at the center of the solution.

Michael looks at me again, quiet now. “If you want the optics to work, it has to look real. Convincing. Clean. Your involvement stays minimal, your image intact, hers… well, we’ll manage that.”

I lean back in my chair, letting the weight of it settle. Control. Strategy. Survival. And now… Liana Hansley.

The first step is to reach out. Carefully. Strategically. Convincingly.