By morning, whispers had already begun.
The spider's den had cracked from within, the story spreading through neat reports and urgent letters: a failed trial, a collapse in the middle of her own lab, and a body that survived but could no longer stand.
Vivienne, once poised in silk and sharp smiles, was carried out on a stretcher, her scent acrid and fouled beyond recognition. Staff spoke in hushed tones of the scream that never fully left her throat, of the way her spine bent at the wrong angle. No one dared call her "dominant" anymore. Not after seeing her crumpled like that.
The papers already had their headlines. Leaked documents stamped with Trevor's seal slid quietly into the right hands overnight: audits, records, and the proof of every fabricated credential and every misused fund. It didn't matter whether the public believed her accident was arrogance or carelessness; the result was the same. She was finished.
