Elina sat in the back of a taxi, her phone glowing in her palm, the photo from Auntie Ro still open on her screen.
A young Damon—barely out of boyhood—being shoved into the backseat of a black car by two suited men. Paparazzi flash. His face half-covered.
Blurred, but damning.
If anyone connected this photo to Damon Sinclair now… it would raise questions he couldn't afford.
The headline came to her like lightning.
> "Billionaire Heir Caught in Old Hit-and-Run Photo: Who Was the Victim?"
No names. No accusations. Just fire and fuel.
She created a fake email. Attached the photo. Sent it to three of the biggest gossip sites in New York.
Then she sat back in her apartment, heart pounding.
And waited.
---
Two Days Later
It exploded like gasoline on dry wood.
By morning, the headline was everywhere—blogs, Instagram gossip reels, even low-buzz tabloids. #DamonSinclair began trending. The photo ran beside it, cropped and darkened but still clearly him.
The internet did what it did best—speculate.
"Who was in the car?"
"Why hasn't this ever been investigated?"
"Did money cover this up?"
No one had proof yet. But it didn't matter.
The story had landed—and Damon was panicking.
---
Elina arrived at Sinclair Holdings that afternoon, dressed in stormy gray silk, heels clicking like warning shots across the marble floor.
She entered his office without knocking.
He was already yelling into the phone. "Tell PR to shut this down. No, I don't care how—it never happened. That photo is nothing."
He saw her. Went still.
"Call you back," he snapped and hung up.
"Elina—"
She played it cool. "You okay?"
He ran a hand through his hair, pacing. "Did you see it?"
"Of course." She perched on the edge of the table. "The whole city did."
"I don't know how they got that photo," he said. "It's over a decade old."
She tilted her head. "What happened that night, Damon?"
He stopped pacing. His expression changed—guarded again.
"Nothing," he lied.
She smiled, slow and dangerous. "You sure about that?"
"Elina…"
She leaned closer. "If I didn't know better, I'd say someone was trying to rattle you."
He looked at her, suspicion flickering for half a second—then vanishing beneath something softer. Desperation.
"Elina, I swear to you—I'm not that person anymore."
She stared at him for a moment.
Then touched his cheek. "You better not be."
Because if he was…
She wasn't done yet.
Not even close.