“Your company,” I said, “is not in temporary distress. It is insolvent. The debt stack is unserviceable. The growth narrative is fiction. Your vice president treated investor capital as a private checking account. Your founder approved concealment when truth threatened reputation. And every quarter you survived was bought by accounting work I personally designed to keep regulators from kicking the door in before I was ready.”
A board member swore under his breath. Another demanded copies. A third was already reaching for his phone.
That was when Randolph broke.
He came around the table slowly. Then, to the astonishment of every person in the room, Randolph did what he had spent his whole life training other people to do before him. He pleaded.
“Violet,” he said, voice shaking. “Please. We can fix this. We can talk privately. Whatever happened at the gala, whatever Prescott did, it was unacceptable. We are family. We can make this right.”
I looked at him. He was not sorry. He was scared. Those are not the same thing.