I don't believe him. The documents in that exposé are too detailed. This wasn’t someone leaking a few embarrassing emails. He had years of financial records. Someone gave Jamie Dean the keys to the kingdom.
But I don't push. Not in front of Warren.
"The Times put it on the front page," I say instead. "They’re not tabloid territory."
My father's jaw tightens. "The Times will print anything that sells papers. They're no better than the rest of them."
On screen, a former federal prosecutor is explaining how money laundering investigations typically proceed.
She's using small words, the kind meant for audiences who don't understand finance but the implication is clear: the Cranes are guilty, and it's only a matter of time before the law catches up.
She's wrong. I've grown up in this world. I know how politics works. Yes, there are deals and donations, the careful dance of favors and obligations. My grandfather built this dynasty from nothing, and my father expanded it. They made compromises along the way. Everyone does. That's how the game is played.
If everyone stood firm, only voting the way they wanted, never supporting anyone else, the whole country would come to standstill.
Campaigning and negotiating is what politics is about. It’s about trying to persuade the other man to your way of thinking.
But money laundering? Bribes to federal officials? That’s something else. It’s also pure speculation. The exposé reads likea conspiracy theory, connecting dots that don't connect, drawing conclusions from documents that could mean anything.
Jamie Dean wanted a big story. He found some ambiguous paperwork, and he’s spun it into something that would make his career. Like every other journalist out there, he doesn’t care who he hurts along the way as long as it’s got his name on it.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and see Georgia's name on the screen.
"I need to take this," I say, and step out into the hallway before anyone can object.
The corridor is quiet, lined with portraits of Cranes going back generations. My grandfather stares down at me with eyes that look much like my own. He built this family from nothing. My grandmother's diamond sits on Georgia's finger right now.
"Georgia."
"Hello Carter." Her voice is careful in a way I've never heard before. We've been together for two years and engaged for three weeks. I know all her tones—the wry amusement, the professional charm, the genuine warmth. This isn't any of them. "I've been watching the coverage."
"Everyone has."
A pause. I can hear her breathing, the soft rustle of movement. She's probably in her office at Mitchell Media, the one with the view of the Capitol dome.
"My father called this morning," she says. "He's concerned."
"Concerned."
"About the optics. The Mitchell name being associated with..." She trails off. "He thinks we should postpone the wedding until things settle."
I lean against the wall and close my eyes. Some part of me knew this was coming the moment I saw the headline. Georgia and I have always been practical about what we are. We’re a strategic alignment as much as a romance. Her family'smedia empire, my family's political capital. Together, we were supposed to be formidable.
Now I'm a liability.
"Postpone," I repeat. "For how long?"
"I don't know." Her voice softens, and I hear the Georgia I actually know—the one who laughs at my terrible jokes and argues with me about policy over too much wine. Maybe we’ve never been the world’s greatest romance, but we are friends. "Carter, I'm sorry. I genuinely am. If it were up to me—"
"But it's not."
"No. It's not." A pause. "I'm going to have the ring couriered back to you. It wouldn't be appropriate for me to keep it."
"Keep it," I hear myself say. "Until this blows over. We can reassess then."
"Carter..." The sadness in her tone says everything. She doesn't think this is going to blow over. She thinks I'm going down, and she's cutting herself loose before I drag her with me.
I can't blame her. It's exactly what I would do in her position.
