Marina POV
The PR consultant's name was Diane, and she came recommended by someone who knew someone, which was the only kind of recommendation I trusted anymore.
We met in a hotel lobby on neutral ground, no connection to the Carter or Rhys names—the kind of place where two women sitting with coffee looked ordinary enough to disappear into the crowd. People walked past us without paying attention, busy with their own lives.
Diane was in her forties, sharp-eyed, calm, and impossible to read. She looked like someone who had spent years cleaning up rich people's disasters and no longer found any of it shocking. I had researched her before agreeing to the meeting.
In the last two years alone, Diane had handled a politician's son, a socialite's ugly divorce, and a corporate heir's public breakdown. All three had survived the scandals. More than survived. Their reputations had somehow come out stronger afterward.
That was the word I kept thinking about.
Improved.
