The first crack in the calm came before the sun even rose.
A text flashed across Layla's phone, bold and relentless against the still-dark screen.
"Meet me tonight. No one else. Come alone."
The sender's name was nothing but a string of random letters, untraceable.
Her stomach dropped.
She stared at it for what felt like minutes, her thumb hovering over the screen.
A second text followed.
"You can't control the narrative forever. Secrets have a way of leaking."
Her breath hitched.
Cole stirred beside her, eyes half-open.
"What is it?" he mumbled.
She hesitated.
"Nothing," she lied, locking the phone before he could see.
But her chest tightened.
Secrets. Leaks. Control.
The words clawed at her mind like unseen hands.
The day ahead stretched long and uncertain.
The studio buzzed with fresh headlines.
This time, speculation wasn't about scandal alone—it was about threats.
"Anonymous account hints at more footage."
"Is someone inside the studio helping rivals?"
"Security lapses at high-profile entertainment facility."
The team scrambled to review surveillance footage, cross-check access logs, and interview staff.
Wallace, normally composed, barked orders like a commander under siege.
Layla and Cole were advised to "keep a low profile."
But they ignored it.
As they walked through the hallways, reporters trailed them like vultures, hungry for every crumb of information.
"Are you receiving threats?"
"Who's behind this?"
"Are you safe?"
Cole's jaw tightened, but he refused to answer.
Layla's eyes burned, but she kept walking.
Their silence only fed the frenzy.
By afternoon, the tension snapped.
A junior production assistant cornered Layla in the break room.
"I—I'm sorry," the young man stammered, eyes darting like a trapped animal.
Layla's eyes narrowed.
"Say it," she commanded.
He swallowed.
"There's… someone leaking footage," he whispered.
Her heart skipped.
"Who?" she demanded.
He hesitated, his lips quivering.
"I—I can't say…"
"Can't? Or won't?" Layla pressed, stepping closer.
Tears welled in his eyes.
"I—I just work here," he sobbed. "I don't want to lose my job!"
The room spun.
"Do you even know how dangerous this is?" she barked.
"I'm sorry!" he screamed, breaking down.
Layla's chest heaved.
She clenched her fists, breathing deeply.
"Then keep your mouth shut," she snapped before turning away.
Cole appeared in the doorway moments later.
His eyes scanned the scene, then met hers.
Without a word, he placed a hand gently on her arm.
The assistant slumped in relief.
Together, they left the room, their silence heavier than words.
That evening, Layla sat alone in the lounge, the city lights stretching before her like a labyrinth of choices.
Her fingers traced the edge of the coffee table without purpose.
Fear and frustration battled for control of her thoughts.
She had chosen honesty, yet the world clawed back.
Was this what it meant to stand against the flood?
The door creaked open softly.
Cole stepped in quietly.
Without asking, he poured two cups of tea and handed one to her.
She accepted it wordlessly.
For a while, they sat in silence.
Then she spoke.
"I thought telling the truth would give me freedom."
"It should," he replied softly.
"It feels like a trap."
Cole's eyes darkened with empathy.
"I know," he murmured.
She turned toward him, eyes glistening.
"What if it's not worth it?"
He stared at her, unflinching.
"Then it's not freedom—it's surrender."
She clutched the tea cup tighter.
"But what if they destroy everything?"
He set his own cup down, his voice firm.
"They can destroy what's fake," he said, "but not what you are."
Later that night, Layla sat by the window, staring into the darkness.
Her phone buzzed again.
A new message.
"Secrets don't stay buried. You can't hide behind love."
Her fingers tightened around the device.
She hesitated.
Her mind screamed for answers—but fear sealed her lips.
Before she could decide what to do, Cole entered quietly, his gaze sharp.
"What is it?"
She hesitated.
"Nothing," she whispered.
He narrowed his eyes but didn't press.
Instead, he placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
"We'll handle this," he said simply.
But his eyes betrayed his concern.
The next morning, Wallace called Layla and Cole into a closed-door meeting.
The room smelled of sweat, ink, and tension.
A security consultant stood at the front, flipping through footage on a large screen.
"Someone gained unauthorized access last night," the consultant explained, pointing at grainy footage of a masked figure slipping through a side entrance.
"CCTV was partially disabled," he added grimly. "This wasn't random."
Wallace's jaw tightened.
"We've increased security, but whoever is behind this knows our systems," he growled.
The consultant glanced at Layla and Cole.
"It's possible the leaks are coming from within."
A chill ran down Layla's spine.
Within.
Someone close.
After the meeting, Layla and Cole stepped into the hallway.
Her eyes scanned the staff faces—crews, assistants, makeup artists, technicians.
The thought that one of them might be betraying them hit like cold water.
She turned to Cole.
"Who could it be?"
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"It could be anyone," he replied. "Someone desperate, angry, or bribed."
"I don't know if I can trust them anymore," she whispered.
He nodded.
"Neither can I."
For a moment, they stood in silence, absorbing the weight of betrayal.
Then Cole's eyes hardened.
"We find them," he growled.
"Together."
She nodded firmly.
That evening, the studio's corridors stretched long and eerie, lit by pools of pale fluorescent light.
Security cameras blinked red.
Staff avoided eye contact.
Even the laughter in distant rooms felt forced.
Layla and Cole sat side by side in a quiet office, poring over access logs and call records with the security team.
Their faces were tight with concentration.
Wallace, normally distant, hovered nearby, watching but offering no guidance.
The air buzzed with unspoken fear.
At one point, Cole's hand brushed Layla's.
She flinched—then caught his gaze.
His eyes softened instantly.
"Hey," he murmured, voice low and reassuring.
A faint smile ghosted her lips.
"I'm here," he whispered.
Just when despair threatened to choke them, the security team flagged something.
A maintenance pass, forged with expert precision, allowed entry into restricted areas during overnight hours.
The name printed on it belonged to a contractor long since removed from the system.
The consultant's brow furrowed.
"This was an inside job," he muttered grimly.
Wallace's face darkened.
"It has to be someone close."
The consultant hesitated before adding, "Or someone with inside access—someone trusted."
The words struck like a hammer.
Trusted.
As the night deepened, Layla sat at her desk staring at the forged pass.
Her heart pounded.
Someone—someone within their walls—was feeding their enemies.
Fear, betrayal, and anger coiled together.
Her eyes flicked to Cole.
Without words, he understood.
He rose to his feet.
"We'll find them," he said.
She nodded.
Her voice steadied.
"No matter what it takes."
For the first time, fear didn't rule her.
It sharpened her.
Together, they would face whatever came next.