That night, back at the mansion, the silence felt like accusation.
I poured whiskey with a heavy hand and went straight to the temporary office. Reports stacked. Messages stacked. Crisis measurements, projections, investor notes.
Everything looked like numbers.
But it felt like blood.
I stared at the screen until my eyes burned, and for the first time in a long time, I understood something I hated:
I wasn’t in control.
I fell asleep at the desk.
Woke up to my phone ringing like a siren.
André’s voice hit my ear before my brain fully caught up.
“Enrico, we have a problem.”
“What now?” I rasped, rubbing my temples.
“The first international partner just officially withdrew,” he said. “They cited reputational damage and instability.”
My throat tightened.
That partner wasn’t optional.
They were a pillar.
“We can replace them,” I said automatically.
“No,” André cut in. “Not quickly enough. And it gets worse.” He paused—just long enough for dread to settle. “The European holding—the biggest investor—they called me personally.”
My blood went cold.
“They’re threatening to pull everything,” André said. “All funding. All capital. Unless we deliver a definitive solution within twenty-four hours.”
Twenty-four.
I stood so abruptly the chair scraped the floor.
“That’s not a negotiation,” I said, disbelief turning into rage. “That’s blackmail.”
“It’s leverage,” André replied, exhausted. “And we gave it to them.”
I stared at the wall, jaw locked, breathing too tight.
“What do they want?” I asked, though I already knew.
“They want an undeniable public demonstration that Dreamland isn’t being driven by personal conflict,” André said. “Something that kills the story—completely. Permanently.”
I let out a low curse, pacing once, twice—like I could outwalk reality.
“We’ve tried everything,” I said, voice tight. “Nothing will convince them in twenty-four hours.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then André spoke again, quieter.
