“I know,” Lila said, nodding quickly. “I know he did. I’ll testify to that. I’ll tell them it was your design.”

“That isn’t enough,” I said.

The silence in the room grew heavy, punctured only by the distant, muffled sound of a camera shutter clicking in the hallway.

The cool air from the terrace blew the sheer curtains inward, carrying the scent of salt water and diesel from the harbor.

Lila lowered her hand slightly, her brow furrowing.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“A private deal doesn’t fix what Grant did to the Maribel project,” I said.

“But this drive has the proof,” Lila insisted, her voice shaking. “It proves he falsified the numbers.”

“It proves it to a judge, months from now,” I said.

I took a slow step toward her, looking down at the black plastic casing of the hard drive.

“I don’t want a quiet settlement in a closed room, Lila,” I said.

Diane looked at me, her sharp eyes assessing my expression, immediately catching my drift.

“Vivian,” Diane said, her voice low and calculating. “The live feed to the press gallery is still routing through this wing.”