His face was grim.

“It’s started,” he said.

He laid the *New York Post* on the desk.

The headline was on page six, but the picture was large and clear.

It was a photo of me leaving a clinic in upstate New York three years ago, taken shortly after my mother died.

The headline read: *WHITLOCK HEIRESS IN MENTAL HEALTH SPIRAL.*

I read the first few lines of the article.

Anonymous sources close to the family claimed I had been suffering from severe delusions for months.

They claimed I was attempting to sabotage Whitlock Luxe out of spite and paranoia.

“They are trying to paint you as incompetent,” Julian said.

“If they convince the board you are unstable, your legal challenges to the merger won’t hold weight.”

“It’s a classic smear,” I said.

My hands were steady, but my stomach felt hollow.

“Celeste’s public relations team must have had this drafted weeks ago,” Julian said.

“They were just waiting for the right moment to release it.”

The doorbell to the suite rang.

Julian opened it to let Priya in.