His secretary, Sarah, stepped inside, holding a tablet to her chest.

Her face was completely devoid of color.

“Mr. Whitaker, I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said, her voice shaking.

“But you need to look at this right now.”

My father reached out and took the tablet from Sarah’s trembling hand.

Ethan Brooks leaned over his shoulder, his brow furrowing as he read the glowing screen.

I stepped closer, squinting at the bright display in the dimly lit conference room.

It was a local news website, featuring a large, unflattering photo of my father in his dusty work shirt.

The headline claimed that a prominent Columbus contractor was hiding assets and neglecting his family.

“They leaked it,” Ethan muttered, his voice tight with anger.

“Claire’s lawyers are already spinning the story to the press,” Sarah said, her fingers twisting the edge of her tablet.

My father sighed, his shoulders sinking under his gray suit jacket.

He looked older than his forty-five years in that moment, the harsh fluorescent lights highlighting the deep lines around his eyes.

“I told you,” he said, turning his gaze toward me. “They want to drag us through the mud.”