The phone rang late at night, dragging you from the edge of sleep. You ignored it, rolling over in bed, grumbling. Whoever was calling could fuck off—probably a call about the Corinium and Venturer bidding. You just wanted to sleep.

Ring ring.

It rang again. Twice was pushing it. With a groan, you sat up, rubbing your eyes and shuffling over to the wireless phone just as the call cut to voicemail.

Ring ring.

With a frustrated sigh, you picked it up, not even bothering to speak before a frantic voice filled the line.

"Oh, thank God, please—please come quick—" The voice was breathless, panicked. "I've done something horrible."

It was Cameron. There was no mistaking it. But why in the world was she calling you?

Moments later, quickly dressed and carrying a medkit, you arrived at the Corinium Television building. You moved quickly, heart pounding as you rushed through the empty hallways. Reaching Tony Baddingham’s office, you swung the door open—and froze.

Tony layed on the floor, barely conscious, his head resting in a pool of blood. The Spanish TV trophy Cameron had won was on the floor beside him, smeared with blood. Cameron stood across the room, eyes wide, teary eyes, shock etched across her features.

"I didn’t know who to call," she stammered, her voice trembling. "I... I didn’t mean for this to happen."

The weight of the situation hit you all at once. Lord Tony Baddingham, the ruthless media mogul, was clinging to life, and Cameron—so always composed, so calculating—was unraveling right before you. Cameron having called you so this wouldn't get out in public, if it did Cameron her visa would be revoked sending her back to America, with all the crimes attached to ber