The call came early, too early for good news.
"Sir," my secretary's voice came through the phone, tight and urgent. "We have a problem. It's the new antibiotics. There's a story spreading online, very damaging."
I rubbed my forehead, already exhausted. "What kind of story?"
"They're saying it causes nerve issues. Someone leaked incomplete trial data. It's already on two major outlets and climbing."
Of course. Perfect timing.
"Send me everything," I said. "I'll be in soon."
I ended the call, got dressed, and left the house without checking the guest room. I knew Rose was still there, door locked, lights off. I didn't have the energy to go through another conversation that would lead nowhere.
Outside, the air was still and cold. I drove straight to the office, thinking about how fast bad press could spread. Derevrell Pharmaceuticals had built its reputation on trust and precision. One story like this could crack that overnight.
By the time I reached headquarters, my secretary was waiting at the door with his tablet.
"It's bad, sir," he said, following me inside. "They're quoting internal data. Someone had to leak this from within."
"Show me," I said.
He handed me the tablet. The headlines were everywhere.
Derevrell's New Antibiotic Raises Safety Questions.
Consumers Fear Hidden Side Effects.
"Anonymous sources, outdated reports, exaggerated claims," I muttered. "Someone's behind this."
"Family?" he asked quietly.
I looked at him. He didn't have to say which family. My uncles had been waiting for something like this, a single misstep to prove I didn't deserve the company my father left me.
"Maybe," I said. "Either way, we fix it now."
I thought for a moment, then said, "Get me Elizabeth Harold."
He blinked. "The publicist?"
"Yes."
He nodded and left.
Elizabeth Harold, Lizzy to those who knew her well, had been my neighbor growing up. Our fathers built their companies side by side, but where mine left me a legacy, hers left her a leash. She had cut it years ago and started her own PR firm. She was smart, brutally honest, and impossible to intimidate.
If anyone could turn this around, it was her.
She called me back ten minutes later.
"Well, if it isn't the king of Derevrell himself," she said, half amused. "I assume this isn't a social call?"
"You've seen the news."
"Of course. You're trending. Again."
"Can you handle it?"
She laughed. "Send me the files. I'll be there in an hour."
And she was, right on time.
Lizzy walked in wearing a dark green blazer, phone in hand, coffee in the other. Her hair was pulled back, her tone sharp as ever.
"Wow," she said, scanning the reports on my desk. "They went all in. Someone really wants your head."
"Looks that way," I said.
She glanced at me briefly. "Your uncles?"
"I can't prove it yet."
"Don't need to. It's obvious," she replied, sitting down and opening her laptop. "We'll deal with the mess first, family politics later."
She started typing fast, her eyes flicking between screens. "Okay, here's the plan. You'll release a statement backed by full lab data. Transparent, confident, no excuses. Then I'll reach out to a few health reporters I trust. We'll control the narrative before the sharks smell blood."
"Do it," I said.
"I already am," she muttered.
For the next few hours, Lizzy barely looked up. She fired off emails, made calls, and talked to people like she had been doing this in her sleep. She didn't waste words, didn't sugarcoat anything. That was one thing I had always liked about her, she said what needed to be said, even when I didn't want to hear it.
At one point, she finally leaned back in her chair and looked at me. "You look like hell."
I raised an eyebrow. "Thanks."
"Not a compliment," she said. "When's the last time you slept properly?"
"I don't remember."
She studied me for a second, eyes narrowing. "Something else is bothering you."
"Work," I said automatically.
She gave a small smirk. "Sure. Let's pretend that's true."
"Lizzy.."
"Relax. I don't care about your marriage or whatever's going on at home," she cut in. "I just need you focused. You start looking human in front of the press, and they'll eat you alive."
I couldn't help the small laugh that escaped me. "You haven't changed."
"Why would I? It works."
By the afternoon, she had cleaned up half the mess. The press statement was out, the data verified, and several outlets had already begun correcting their earlier stories.
Lizzy stretched her arms and stood. "There. Crisis managed. You'll still get some noise for a few days, but it won't stick."
"Good," I said quietly.
She packed up her things, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "Get some rest, Max. You look like you're about two bad headlines away from collapsing."
"I'm fine."
She gave me a knowing look. "No, you're not. But fine, pretend you are. Just don't let it bleed into your work."
"Always the therapist," I said with a half smile.
"Hardly," she said, smirking back. "If I cared that much, I'd charge you double."
And with that, she walked out, confident as ever.
When the door closed, the office fell silent again. The crisis was under control, the stock had stabilized, but my chest still felt heavy.
Lizzy was right, something was bothering me. But it had nothing to do with business.
And everything to do with the woman locked behind that guest room door.