He turned back to the microphone, his expression hardening.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s not lose our heads over a domestic dispute,” Grant said, his voice projecting through the speakers with a forced, practiced warmth.

He gripped the edges of the mahogany podium, his knuckles turning white under the bright stage lights.

“A development of this scale is not a drawing on a piece of paper,” he continued, looking directly at the front row of investors.

“It requires capital, municipal approvals, and concrete relationships that I spent fifteen years building.”

He paused, adjusting his silk tie with a sharp, twitching movement of his fingers.

“If Vivian wants to dispute the authorship of these blueprints, we can do so in a quiet courtroom.”

“But let me make one thing absolutely clear to everyone in this room.”

He leaned closer to the microphone, his eyes narrowing as he looked at me.

“Without Whitmore Development, the machinery at Harbor Point stops tomorrow morning.”

A low murmur rippled through the crowd of three hundred stakeholders.

“I will personally freeze the construction accounts,” Grant said, his voice hardening into a threat.