Dunleavy looked up, a thin sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead.

“You think you are clean, Nathaniel?” he spat, trying to find his footing again.

“You think the public will care who signed the checks once these documents hit the net?”

He turned the phone toward us, showing the screen.

A progress bar was loading on a secure file-sharing application, slowly filling with a bright blue line.

“Eighty percent,” Dunleavy said, his teeth bared in a desperate grin.

“In two minutes, the entire history of the Brindlewood acquisition goes public.”

“The dummy corporations, the diverted maintenance funds, the safety violations.”

“Your father’s signature is on the original deed, Nathaniel.”

“And so is yours on the renewal forms from five years ago.”

Charles Graves let out a low, ragged breath behind us.

He leaned heavily on his silver-handled cane, the metal tip scraping against the marble.

“Nathaniel,” the old man whispered, his voice shaking.

“We cannot survive another scandal.”

“The board is already looking for an excuse to replace us.”

“I don’t care about the board, Father,” Nathaniel said, without looking back.