Chapter 4

"It blew up."

At nine o'clock the next morning, my intern rushed into my office, his face pale.

"Claire, your old company's official account just released a statement. They literally doxxed the single mom—they posted her social security number and her home address."

I stood up instantly and grabbed the tablet from his hands.

The statement was long, written in Chloe’s signature condescending tone. Every sentence sounded like a judge handing down a sentence:

"Official Statement: The so-called 'injured baby' post circulating online is a coordinated extortion attempt by professional scammers.

The user 'Kiki's Mom' is Sarah Jenkins, currently unemployed, with a history of extortion. See her detailed identity verification and past police reports below. Our brand will never negotiate with professional scammers—your script is trash!"

My fingers clamped tightly around the edges of the tablet.

The so-called "history of extortion" was actually from three years ago, when Sarah had protested outside the company headquarters. Security had called the police, and a report was filed.

I was the one who went to the station to bail her out back then.

The comment section had turned into an absolute bloodbath. Half the people were calling Sarah a liar, while the other half were blasting the company for violating her privacy. The hashtag was sitting at number four on the trending charts, with views climbing past two hundred million.

But Chloe didn't care about justice. She just wanted to look like a winner.

The company's official account immediately posted a second update—a photo of Chloe standing in the office with her hands on her hips, smiling confidently. The caption read: "Protecting the brand with an iron fist. No exceptions."

The post received over twenty thousand retweets in fifteen minutes.

"And look at this," the intern handed me his phone.

It was Raymond's Instagram. A long-form post, over a thousand words, titled: "Weakness is the Cancer of the PR Industry—To My Former Colleagues."

He didn’t mention my name, but every single paragraph was a direct attack on my working style:

"There is a type of PR professional whose first instinct during a crisis is to kneel. They kneel to clients, they kneel to the media, and they kneel to so-called 'victims.' They treat the company's dignity like a doormat, only to invite more greedy extortionists."

"Real PR should be like Chloe Sterling—fearless and uncompromising. Let the world know we aren't afraid."

At the bottom of the post was a screenshot of the company's live stream: one hundred and eighty thousand concurrent viewers, with real-time sales exceeding three million dollars.

Chloe’s personal account was also updated with the hashtag #TheFearlessPRQueen. Her comment section was flooded with hundreds of fans chanting, "You’re so badass, queen!"

My old company's stock rose by two percent that afternoon.

At two p.m., I called Lily again.

This time, she didn't pick up.

I sent her a text message: "Lily, releasing Sarah’s private information is illegal. More importantly, the five hundred mothers in the Sunflower group are watching. You have no idea what that group represents."

It was marked as read. No reply.

Five minutes later, Lily posted a photo on Instagram from the company lobby. It was a picture of Chloe posing with her hands on her hips, captioned: "Following the right leader, doing the right thing."

Chloe liked the post instantly.

I leaned back in my chair. I was doing a simple math equation in my head—five hundred and three angry mothers, whose rage I had personally pacified for three long years. Who was going to block them now?

The answer was nobody.

Chloe was standing on top of the dam I had built with my blood, sweat, and tears, taking selfies for Instagram.

She had absolutely no idea what was beneath her feet.

At eight p.m., Ethan Hayes invited me to dinner. Halfway through the meal, he looked at my expression and asked:

"Your old company’s statement is causing quite a stir. What do you think?"

"They are going to crash," I said.

"How bad?"

I set my fork down.

"Bad enough to watch their stock dive off a cliff."