business?”
Silence.
“Gwen.”
“I was developing a campaign.”
“What campaign?”
“It was supposed to be positive.”
I closed my eyes.
“Explain.”
She sighed.
“One of my clients is a skincare company.
They’re trying to move into body-confidence content.
Real people.
Unfiltered skin.
That kind of thing.”
For a second, I could not speak.
“You used my daughter as marketing material?”
“No.
Nothing was published.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“I wanted to pitch the concept first.”
“Did Maya consent to being photographed for a commercial pitch?”
“It was a public beach.”
“Did she consent?”
“She’s sixteen.
You’re making this sound—”
“Did she consent?”
“No.”
The word was quiet.
I felt cold.
“Did I consent?”
“No.”
“Did Noah?”
“No.”
“What did you do with the photographs?”
“They’re on a private deck.”
My heart started pounding.
“What deck?”
“A pitch presentation.”
“Who received it?”
“Two people.”
“Names.”
“Claire—”
“Names, Gwen.”
She gave
