"Tonight," she whispers, "we start fresh."
ANDI
The week after the FBI confirms the federal investigation, I call an emergency board meeting at MaxMorgan Music.
Not out of fear—out of resolve. I’m done letting events dictate my actions.
As Executive Chair, I don’t have the luxury of disappearing until things “settle.” I built this board the way my father taught me: carefully, intentionally, with people who understand the long game. Still, I can feel the tension in the room—the way uncertainty makes even seasoned professionals uneasy.
Stock dipped the morning after my interview aired. It rebounded the day Maria testified. It dipped again when the youth center review hit national news. Power, I’m reminded, always comes with a price tag.
I stand at the head of the table, the weight of their expectations pressing in. “I will not step down,” I say, my voice steady. No one has asked, but I see the relief and surprise ripple through the room.
“I will not suspend my philanthropic work. I will not issue a defensive press statement. And I will not allow this company to be used as leverage against children.”
Silence. Then Bill clears his throat. “Federal indictmentsare expected,” he says quietly. “If Rhoades is formally charged, public sentiment will swing decisively.”
“It already is,” I reply. “But that’s not the point. MaxMorgan Music doesn’t move based on sentiment. We move based on integrity.”
A few heads nod, the mood shifting from apprehension to something closer to respect.
“I’ll delegate more operational authority to the CEO for the next quarter. Public-facing appearances will be strategic. But I remain Executive Chair.”
That’s the balance: not retreat, not reckless exposure. Leadership, without apology.
After the meeting, I linger in my office, the city lights flickering beyond the window. My father’s portrait hangs behind the desk, his gaze steady. “You’d tell me not to flinch,” I murmur to the empty room. And I don’t.
Three daysafter the DOJ confirms federal involvement, the youth center board reverses its “temporary review.” It isn’t an apology—it’s a recalibration.
Ms. Hargrove meets me at the entrance. Parents who’d pulled their children begin trickling back. Not all of them.Some never will. That’s reality, and I have to accept it. My wishes can’t change it, so all that’s left is to move forward.
“I never doubted you,” she says quietly.
“You were afraid,” I answer, gently.
“Yes.”
“So was I.” That honesty matters more than any public show of loyalty.
That week, I expanded the center's legal arm. We begin paperwork to formalize juvenile advocacy services. If someone tries to call me unstable again, they’ll have to do it while I’m standing in a courtroom defending a twelve-year-old.
Later, when the halls are empty and the scent of coffee and industrial cleaner lingers, I stack the last chair and check the clock. It’s late, but the room is finally finished. This isn’t about fixing the world, I remind myself. It’s about refusing to disappear from it. I will never again survive by staying silent.
Two days later, Luke’s psychologist's license arrives. He holds the envelope as if it weighs something. “You don’t have to choose between boxing and this,” I tell him.
“I’m not choosing,” he says. “I’m expanding. Both are important to me.”
He doesn’t want to fix adults anymore. He wants to reach kids before they fracture. We don’t announce it. We just start building—together.
That night at Luke’s parents’ house, after the news confirms Rhoades’ death at sea, the house grows quiet. Kelly cries—not for revenge, but for justice that feels incomplete when it ends in water instead of a courtroom. Rhoades escaped facing his victims head-on. That hurts in a different way. He didn’t win, but neither did we. No one wants a draw.
Later, when the others drift outside, I find Luke watching me. “Luke,” I say softly.
“Yes?”
“Can we have a Christmas wedding?”
Not because I’m running. Not because I’m afraid. Because I’m done postponing joy for chaos.
