Chapter 9
The Leak
The victory of the beauty box proposal was short-lived. The high of Anya Sharma’s approval had barely faded when the first email arrived. It was from a anonymous, encrypted address, sent to the entire Chroma staff.
The subject line was: A Question of Merit.
Attached were screenshots. Dozens of them. Private, late-night email exchanges between Isla and Luca’s work accounts. They were mostly professional—brainstorming sessions, drafts of copy, layout adjustments. But the anonymous sender had carefully curated and highlighted them.
Luca: Your layout was better.
Isla: You’re just saying that because you’re in love with me.
Luca: I’m saying it because it’s true. But yes, that too.
Another:
Isla: Sebastian’s proposal is garbage.
Luca: I know. We’ll kill it in the meeting. Your idea is brilliant.
The most damning one was a simple exchange from the night of the Felix de Winter show:
Luca: Where are you?
Isla: Rooftop. Needed air after the chaos.
Luca: Stay there. I’m coming.
The narrative was devastatingly clear: Isla Reid’s rapid rise was not due to talent, but to pillow talk.
Her ideas were being greenlit not on their merit, but because she was sleeping with the boss.
The private, vulnerable man she’d fallen for was being used to paint her as an opportunistic climber.
The office, which had been buzzing with gossip, fell into a stunned, judgmental silence. Isla sat at her desk, her face burning, feeling the weight of a hundred eyes. She saw the looks—the pity, the scorn, the smug satisfaction on Sebastian’s face as he pretended to look concerned.
Luca’s office door flew open. His face was a thundercloud. “Everyone, back to work,” he commanded, his voice cutting through the tension. He didn’t even look at Isla. “Isla. My office. Now.”
It was the tone of a CEO, not a lover. She stood on shaky legs and walked into his office, the glass walls feeling more like a cage than ever before.
The moment the door clicked shut, his demeanor changed. The public mask of anger fell away, replaced by a frantic concern. “Are you okay?”
“No,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Luca, they think… everyone thinks…”
“I know what they think,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “This is a targeted attack. This is Sebastian’s doing. I’m sure of it.”
“It doesn’t matter who did it!” she cried, the tears finally coming. “The damage is done. My credibility is gone. Everything I’ve worked for… they think you just handed it to me.”
He came around the desk and pulled her into his arms. She stiffened, then collapsed against him, sobbing into his shoulder. “I will fix this,” he murmured into her hair, his voice fierce. “I promise you, I will fix this.”
But as she clung to him, Isla felt a chilling certainty.
Some stains, especially in the image-obsessed world of fashion, never truly came out.
The leak wasn’t just an attack on her reputation; it was a poison, seeping into the foundation of everything they had built, both professionally and personally.
The masterpiece of their relationship now had a ugly, public smear across its center, and she had no idea how to restore it.