“Yes, sir.”
The line died.
The drive to Falkirk blurred—functional, measured, every thought fixed on the pressure points Phil and I would trigger until Davidson collapsed under his own corruption. By the time the tower came into view, the decision had crystallized.
Reporters hit the car in a wave as soon as I pulled to the entrance—cameras erupting in white-hot bursts, microphones slamming toward glass, questions piling over one another.
“Mr. Holt!”
“Is Elion collapsing?”
“Was the leak intentional?”
“Will Falkirk end the partnership?”
And then—
“Has Ms.Sinclair lost control of her company?”
That one snapped clean through me.
“Falkirk stands with Elion. We are aligned and addressing the breach together,” I commented, buttoning my jacket and passing my keys off to the valet.
“Mr.Holt! When will Elion be making a statement?” someone called, stopping me in my tracks.
Emma wasn’t ready. Throwing her into this would break what little stability she had.
Phil’s timeline bounced in my skull.
“Elion is conducting an internal review,” I announced. “Expect a statement by the end of next week once information is verified.”
Two weeks.
Two weeks to bury Davidson.
Two weeks to stabilize Emma.
Two weeks before the narrative flipped.
And with that, I walked inside, the static of cameras fading.
Falkirk’s lobby was quieter but no calmer—whispers threading through the air.
“Did you see the news?”
“What’s Falkirk going to do now?”
“We have to cut ties. Elion’s done.”
I ignored the noise, offered the polite smile expected of me.
Dread settled in me as I saw Richard Farnsworth waiting for me by the elevator.
“Damien,” he said, steady as stone. “Board’s waiting upstairs.”
“I’ll be there.”
Anger pressed in, but I kept my expression smooth as I stepped into the elevator, heading for the executive floor.
