The stock price for Mercer Hospitality Group was displayed in a small sidebar, showing a steep, vertical drop.

Grant looked at the screen, his face turning a sickly shade of grey.

The narrative he had tried to build—of a bitter, vindictive wife—had evaporated in a matter of minutes.

“This is public relations suicide,” Margaret whispered, her voice cracking as she stared at the screen.

“It’s not just PR, Margaret,” I said, looking her in the eye. “It’s criminal.”

Philip Mercer, who had remained silent in the corner of the room, finally stood up.

“I had nothing to do with this,” Philip said, his voice shaking as he walked toward the door. “I was told those funds were loans.”

“Sit down, Philip,” Margaret commanded, but her voice lacked its usual authority.

Philip didn’t listen; he opened the door and walked out, leaving the door ajar.

Through the opening, we could hear the distant sound of phones ringing in the outer offices of the law firm.

The receptionist’s voice was audible, trying to handle the sudden influx of press calls.