Most of them stand when he enters. A few hesitate. I clock who does and who doesn’t.
He’s sixty. He looks it. Not weak. Just… weathered. Like a man who’s been standing in the wind for a long time and hasn’t stepped away.
I take the chair beside him. Not behind.
He doesn’t rush. He never has. He rests his hands on the table, palms down, grounding himself on something solid before he speaks.
“I won’t keep you long,” he says.
His voice is softer than it used to be, but still unmistakably his.
“I’ve spent most of my adult life in rooms like this,” he continues. “Planning for the future. Arguing about risk. Pretending we can control everything if we prepare enough.”
A few tight smiles flash, and he lets them sit for a moment before continuing. “I’m here today because preparation matters. Especially when the risk is personal.”
He looks at them then. All of them. One by one.
“I was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s two years ago.”
The word hits but doesn’t make a splash. Instead, it’s like a stone dropped into water, which causes a slight ripple to roll through, because they knew.
“I’m sixty,” he says calmly. “I’m not confused about where I am or why I’m here. My doctors have confirmed my capacity. My counsel is present. This is a decision made with full awareness ofwhen this all began. It’s a discussion that has been had several times since. Nothing has changed in those two years except I am more certain every day that I’ve not only made the right decision for Fairfax Media, but the only one.”
Smith shifts in their chair. Muldoon lowers his gaze. I glance at Matteo or Tomas, who gives me a slight nod, telling me he sees it too, further confirmation that he’s involved.
“This company deserves continuity,” he says. “Not whispers of uncertainty. Not a slow erosion of trust while people wait for something to break.”
He turns his hand slightly, an open gesture toward me.
“I am officially appointing my daughter, Sofie Fairfax, as my proxy for my voting shares, effective immediately,” he says. “She will exercise my full fifty-five percent when I cannot, or when I choose not to. There is no one who cares for this company more than she does.”
The words are precise, chosen, and practiced.
“This proxy is durable,” he continues. “It survives incapacity. It has been executed and witnessed. You all have copies.”
A pause while Mark, his personal lawyer, hands them out.
“I am also appointing Sofie to take on executive authority,” he says. “Operational control. Strategic oversight. Day-to-day leadership. She is officially your CEO. She will make all staffing decisions, and can hire and fire anyone she chooses, including those hired as favors who are not cut out to work here.” He turns to me. “I would strongly suggest that is Q1’s focus.”
“Noted.”
Someone opens their mouth, and Dad lifts a hand. “This is not a discussion. This is ownership exercising its rights.”
Silence.
“I will remain involved as long as I am able,” he adds. “But I will not ask this company to pretend I will always be.”
Then, softer, more human. “I trust her completely.”
That’s what breaks the room, not the percentages, not the paperwork. His trust.
He reaches for my hand and squeezes it while giving me a wink.
“If you have concerns,” he says, looking back to them, “you may direct them to legal. Or you may decide whether you are still aligned with the company’s future and sell your shares. But make sure to have your lawyers read the fine print. I am to be offered the first option, then the CEO, who is now Sofie. You sell lower to anyone else; you will lose in court.”
They start whispering, and his voice cuts through it all. “I’m not finished.”
Every head snaps back to him.
