My first instinct is to ghost. Let my PR team in Manhattan handle this remotely. Issue a statement. Control the narrative from a distance.
Except.
Amara glances at me. Just once. She’s realized Clara is press, too. Her eyes meet mine across the room and I read the question there as clearly as if she’d said it aloud.
Are you going to run?
I should.
Five years ago I would have.
But five years ago I didn’t have Amara Khan looking at me like I’m a portfolio she’s deciding whether to divest from entirely.
I stay.
Amara wraps up her presentation and explains the next steps. She invites families to schedule individual consultations at the clinic.
The crowd starts to disperse, clustering in small groups, talking in low voices.
Clara Bosch makes a beeline for me.
Because of course she does.
“Mr. Saelinger,” she says, extending a hand. “Clara Bosch, Bahamas Tribune. Can I ask you a few questions about the foundation’s involvement here?”
I shake her hand and force a welcoming smile. “Sure.”
“The Saelinger Foundation has been under some scrutiny recently regarding fund allocation,” Clara says, flipping open her notebook. “Can you comment on how you’re ensuring transparency with this pilot program?”
Every instinct I have screams don’t engage.
This is a trap.
She’s fishing for a scandal angle.
One wrong word and it’s front page news, not just here, but in NYC.
But Amara’s still watching me from the front of the room. She’s talking to Mrs. Rolle but her attention is split.
Testing me.
Fuck.
I finger a coin in my pocket. It’s an old habit.
“We’re implementing full financial audits for all foundation-funded programs,” I tell her. “Independent third-party reviews. Quarterly public reports. The transparency arrangements are outlined in the grant agreements.”
Clara scribbles something down. “And the allegations that a former board member misappropriated funds?”
There it is.
The kill shot.
Xavier.
I could deflect.
Say it’s under investigation.
