He closed his eyes for a long moment, his chest rising and falling rapidly under his white shirt.

“And the assets?” Daniel asked, his pen hovering over the signature line of the preliminary waiver.

“Total forfeiture,” Lena said. “The remaining shares in Mercer Hospitality, the liquid accounts in the Caymans, and his interest in Darrow House.”

“That leaves him with nothing,” Daniel said.

“It leaves him with a recommended sentence of eight years instead of thirty,” Lena replied.

The clock on the wall ticked with a heavy, metallic click.

Grant reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of the paper.

“I built those hotels,” Grant whispered.

“You built them with my family’s money,” I said. “And you ruined them with your own greed.”

He looked at the pen in Daniel’s hand.

“Grant,” Daniel said, his voice dropping an octave. “You have to sign it. If you walk out of here without this agreement, the prosecutor will ask for maximum bail and you will wait for trial in a cell.”

Grant looked around the boardroom, his gaze lingering on the oil portraits of the city’s founders on the walls.