"Sign here," Frankie said, sliding the document across the lacquered table.
Fletcher Carney didn't look up. He tapped the pen against his nails, slow, deliberate. A television crew leaned from the doorway, lenses trained like teeth.
"Do it quickly," he said. "I find you dirty."
Zara Park's laugh hit the ceiling. "Fletcher, play nice."
Fletcher smiled for the cameras. "I'm always honest. The cameras like honesty."
Frankie set her fingers on the signature line. Her hand didn't shake.
"There's an escrow account," Zara said, stepping forward with an envelope. "Confidential clause, lifetime gag order. Sign, and this is done. Walk away clean."
"Sign, walk away," Fletcher repeated. "Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of."
Frankie folded her hand around the pen and shook her head once.
"No," she said. "I won't be bought."
Fletcher's expression hardened. "You always were dramatic."
"Then I will be dramatic," Frankie said. Her thumb pressed the pen down. She wrote her name with one continuous stroke.
The microphones in the suite caught everything. Cameras outside caught the movement of the curtains.
Fletcher laughed. "You really think that changes anything? You can't—"
Frankie stood and pushed the envelope back toward Zara. "Keep it. You can give it to your charity box."
Zara's fingers hovered. "Frankie, it's not worth—"
"Everything's worth something," Frankie said. "This is not that something."
Fletcher's mouth opened. "You signed," he said, as if discovery could be a wound
