I sat in the silence of the library, the fire crackling softly in the hearth.
For forty years, I had believed that power was the ability to avoid consequences—to insulate oneself with lawyers, cash reserves, and political leverage until the world’s friction couldn’t touch you.
I looked down at my hands. They were the hands of a man who had built monuments out of vanity and called it an empire.
“Lucia,” I said quietly into the intercom.
The line clicked open. “Yes, Vincent?”
“Draft a complete waiver of corporate privilege for all historical files relating to the Pier Nineteen collapse. Deliver the original geotechnical reports to the district attorney’s office by nine tomorrow morning. Along with a personal letter from me admitting gross administrative negligence.”
Lucia’s voice hesitated over the wire. “Vincent… that will expose you to personal civil liability in the tens of millions. It could bankrupt the construction division.”
“Let it bankrupt the division,” I said. “The concrete was rotten, Lucia. It’s time we cleared the lot.”
I turned back to Tessa. She was staring at me, her chest rising and falling, her expression caught between shock and an old, lingering disbelief.
