Isabelle’s POV

The newsroom was cold, the air thick with tension. The overhead lights flickered slightly, casting sharp shadows across the long conference table. I sat at the far end, my fingers drumming against the polished wood, watching the screen in front of me.

The broadcast was set to air in less than an hour.

Everything was in place.

The reporters had been fed just enough truth to make it explosive but not enough to trace it back to me—at least not yet.

I glanced at Brian, who ...