(Mid-March – The Ministry of Justice, The Nest, and Westminster)
The storm didn't come with thunder.
It came with whispers.
Whispers that slithered through corridors of Parliament, through editorial rooms, through salons and drawing rooms where men and women who claimed neutrality weighed their loyalties like coin.
All of them carried the same name: Emily Evans.
--
The Bait
At the Ministry of Justice, the gas lamps burned low. Christopher sat behind his desk, the dark of his coat merging with the wood paneling, his gloves folded neatly beside a stack of files.
His aide entered quietly. "It's done. The letters are ready for release. Anonymous, of course."
Christopher nodded once. "Good. Has she seen them yet?"
"Not yet. But the whispers have begun — they'll reach her by morning."
He leaned back, the faintest shadow of satisfaction crossing his face. "Whispers are better than proof. Proof can be denied. Whispers spread themselves."
