The Whitmore Hotel was discreet, gilded, and deeply private, the kind of place power didn't whisper, it nodded, and the walls were taught to forget. Passion stepped out of the elevator with unshaken composure, every inch of her in control. Her navy suit was severe, her ponytail slicked back like a blade. Charles Bishop was already seated in one of the private suites, a glass of whiskey untouched at his side. But what caught her off guard was the figure near the window, Scott, arms folded, his gaze unreadable. His presence wasn't necessary, which meant it was deliberate.
Charles rose, expression calm but taut. "Miss Coleman. Thank you for coming."
"Your message was vague," Passion replied, not offering her hand.
He gestured to the seating, but she remained standing. "Sit, if you'd like. This isn't a hostile call."
"I'll stand."
A flicker of amusement, or perhaps irritation, passed over his face. "As you wish."
Scott glanced at her, but said nothing. Charles didn't waste time. "You've been good for the Bishop brand. Polished. Elegant. We've ridden the wave of your company's pristine image and made serious ground with investors. But now the tide seems to be turning."
Passion tilted her head slightly. "How so?"
He picked up a tablet and turned it toward her. The headline glared:
BISHOP GREEN INITIATIVE LINKED TO FOREIGN TAX HAVENS.
Beneath it: Photos. Charts. Anonymous quotes. The kind of reporting that didn't come from rumor, it definitely came from someone who knew.
"Interesting," she said evenly. "I didn't realize you were using shell accounts in Panama. It must be exhausting keeping all that clean."
Charles didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he smiled, small, tight. "These things have a way of snowballing. One minute it's whispers, the next, full-blown audits. And no matter how squeaky clean someone seems, the mud splashes wide."
Scott glanced up at that, but Passion didn't blink. Charles set the tablet down. "All I'm saying is we're partners now, at least in public. If I go down, you might just get some of that stain on your dress."
Passion stepped closer, her gaze cold and sharp enough to cut. "If your hands are as clean as mine, then neither of us need worry."
Silence.
Charles gave her a slow, unreadable nod. "That's the kind of loyalty I admire. Cleaning house is always easier with help."
"Then I suggest you start scrubbing," she said icily. "I'm not your maid."
And without sparing Scott a glance, she turned and walked out but Scott followed. He caught up to her just outside the suite, his hand catching her arm lightly.
"Passion"
She turned. The look she gave him could've frozen blood.
"You want to say something?"
"I heard what he said," Scott said, voice low. "He's trying to rope you in, he does this, he manipulates the narrative and makes you feel like you're part of the rot."
"I don't need a guide to navigate corruption," she snapped. "I'm fluent."
Scott hesitated, searching her face. "You didn't used to be like this."
"Maybe you just don't know me."
He stepped forward, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "Look, I don't know if you're involved in these leaks or not, but if you are, you need to understand, my father's not just some executive with a bruised ego. He doesn't play fair."
"That's the thing, Scott." Her voice was quiet now, but lethal. "Neither do I."
She turned and left him standing alone.
That night, her flat was too quiet.
Passion sat curled on the couch, wine untouched, the television on mute. The article had gone viral. Screenshots. Forums. Influencers calling out the hypocrisy of 'greenwashing.' The Bishop name was splattered everywhere, and not even their PR team's attempts to flood the news with charity stories could hold back the storm.
Her phone buzzed.
Matteo (encrypted): Journalist has been missing three days. Still no trace. Elena thinks it's not a coincidence.
Passion's chest tightened. The reporter had been young, fearless, brilliant. Passion hadn't fed her anything directly, she had just pointed her toward documents no one was watching. She hadn't asked for more. She hadn't needed to. Now she was gone. The guilt sat like a stone in her throat. Someone had vanished for her vengeance. She swallowed it down.
When the door opened, she expected Aria. Instead, Matteo walked in with Elena close behind him, wind in her coat and purpose in her stride.
"Elena?" Passion stood.
"You should've seen your face," Elena murmured, moving in to hug her. "Did you think we'd let you wage a war alone?"
Passion didn't reply. Matteo came in next, kissing her forehead like a brother.
"We needed to see you. Also..." He reached into his coat and handed her a small USB. "Our mole in the London office disappeared two days ago. Our last ping was this file. You'll want to open it."
Passion frowned and plugged it into her tablet. Her eyes scanned the screen and then narrowed.
"What is this?"
Matteo crossed his arms. "Someone's been quietly siphoning money out of the Bishop Green Energy fund for years. Hidden under dozens of names. The twist? One of the accounts was tied to a name that used to work for your father. Before the attack."
Passion froze.
Elena's voice was soft. "We don't think it's him. But someone knows what happened that night."
The file trembled in her hands. This wasn't about payback anymore. This was a thread unraveling the entire tapestry.
****
In the Bishop penthouse, Charles slammed a newspaper against his desk.
"Who the hell is behind this?!"
Scott stood across from him, silent. Watching. Calculating.
"The offshore accounts," Charles muttered. "The press timing. The investor pull-out this morning. Someone's targeting us. Someone powerful and who has inner access. I'm having a strong feeling that we're underestimating the woman we just invited to sit at our table."
Scott looked at his father trying to hide his terror. It didn't bode well for Passion if his father suspected her as Charles was desperate enough to act on mere suspicions at this point. He needed to find out the truth before his father made a move.