(Isobel's Point of View)
The day arranged itself into a sequence of small violences — a photographer's flash through a glass door, the abrupt ring of a phone that felt like a baton striking a drum, the staccato of heels on tile that meant decisions were arriving in human form. Sophie moved like she always did when crisis was being dressed into something presentable: quick, exact, her voice a string of clipped orders that somehow smoothed the edges of panic.
"We'll do a controlled release," she said, as if naming it made the danger less chaotic. "Two statements. One from Etienne, one from you. Both short. No speculation. Marcus will feed legal the files. Patricia will sit with the cameras and coordinate. Makeup on you, light on him. Keep him off aggressive angles."
