But I don’t care anymore. The cost of maintaining stability is too high.
"As CEO, I'm initiating an internal audit of the Heritage Street acquisition," I say, and I can feel the shift in the room. "Specifically, I want to know how we obtained information aboutthe preservation committee's schedule, what contacts we had with city planning officials, and whether any of those contacts involved inappropriate influence or pressure."
"This is absurd," Graham says, and now the smooth corporate veneer is cracking. "You're jeopardizing a successful project because of—what? Personal feelings about your wife's pet cause?"
"I'm doing due diligence," I correct him. "And if that makes you uncomfortable, Graham, maybe you should ask yourself why."
Malcolm leans forward, and his voice goes hard. "This is what happens when you let sentimentality into leadership. You start second-guessing sound business decisions because they conflict with personal attachments. Your father understood that business requires making hard choices. He never would have let a marriage interfere with what's best for the company."
The invocation of my father is meant to sting. To remind me that I'm failing to live up to the legacy, that I'm letting emotion cloud judgment, that I'm proving all the board's concerns about the marriage affecting my professional capacity. And it works—I feel the jab land exactly where Malcolm intended.
But it also clarifies something I've been avoiding. My father did put the company first. Always. Above relationships, above community impact, above anything that couldn't be quantified in quarterly reports. And he built an empire, yes. But he also died alone in his office.
I don't want to be him.
I don't want to wake up at sixty-five and realize I've built something impressive and completely hollow.
"My father," I say slowly, "is dead. And this is my company now. We're doing the audit. Malcolm, Graham—you're both on administrative leave pending the investigation's completion."
The room erupts. Graham is on his feet, objecting. Talia is trying to mediate, warning about the optics. Someone is asking procedural questions about authority and board approval. Malcolm just sits there, staring at me with an expression I can't quite read—surprise mixed with something that might be grudging respect.
"You can't do this," Graham says, but his voice lacks conviction.
Because we both know I can. As CEO, I have the authority to place executives on administrative leave pending investigation.
The board could override me, could vote no confidence and remove me from the position. But that would take time and create exactly the kind of public spectacle they've been trying to avoid.
"I can, and I am," I say. "The audit starts today. You'll both receive formal notification within the hour. In the meantime, I expect full cooperation with the compliance team's requests for documentation and interviews."
The meeting dissolves into chaos after that. Board members arguing about procedure and precedent. Malcolm and Graham making veiled threats about what this means for my future with the company. Talia trying to broker some kind of compromise that would let everyone save face.
I walk out before they finish. Just stand up, collect my materials, and leave them to argue without me. Because I don't care about their objections or their warnings or their careful political calculations about what this means for board dynamics. I care about doing the right thing, even if it's too late to matter for the outcome I actually want.
My phone is buzzing before I make it back to my office.
I silence my phone and close my office door. Through the window, I can see the city spread out below—including somewhere in that grid the Heritage Street building that willsoon be demolished. The acquisition that closed this morning while I sat in my empty penthouse trying to figure out how to fix what I'd broken.
Too late for Rosanna. The building is sold. The permits are approved. The timeline is set. Even if the audit uncovers violations, it won’t change the outcome.
The acquisition is legal, the contracts are signed.
At best, I might force some procedural changes going forward. At worst, I'm committing professional suicide to prove a point that won't actually save anything.
But it's not about saving the building anymore. It's about deciding what kind of person I want to be. What kind of CEO I want to be. Whether I'm going to spend my life making "hard choices" that are really just rationalizations for hurting people because it's convenient, or whether I'm going to actually stand for something even when it costs me.
With Rosanna, I could accept an annulment. Let it end quietly. Call it a 'win.'
Or I can fight for her. Try to fix what I broke.
I've spent too long paralyzed by the certainty that it's too late, that Rosanna is gone and nothing I do can change that fundamental fact.
I pull out my phone and open a new text to ERS. To Tessa specifically, since she's been the one managing our contract.
Standing up in that board meeting wasn’t strategy. It was the first honest decision I’ve made in a long time.
I start typing.
Tessa — I’m not ready to sign anything.
