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“I’m not asking you to host galas and kiss babies,” he continues. “That’s the veneer. An important veneer, certainly. People are sentimental. They want rich men to feel guilty enough to fund hospitals and scholarships. But your responsibilities would go far beyond that.”

“And the truth behind this new position?”

His eyes sharpen. “The truth is that the Vexley Foundation is our cleanest channel.”

A chill moves through me.

He opens a folder on his desk and slides it toward me. Inside are documents. Charts. Transfers. Grant allocations. I skim them. At first glance, everything looks legitimate.

Too legitimate.

That’s the first warning.

Scholarship initiatives. Urban renewal funds. International education grants. Medical outreach.

Beneath them, buried in the numbers, is the shape of something else. Money moving through noble causes and emerging without fingerprints.

I look up slowly. “It’s a front.”

His eyes gleam.

“For laundering,” I add.

“Among other things.”

I should be shocked. Some part of me is. Not because I believe the Vexleys are clean. I’m not a child.

But knowing your family is corrupt is different from holding the proof in your hands.

Father leans back. “You look disappointed.”

“I’m absorbing.”

“Good. Disappointment serves no purpose.”

I look down at the papers again. “Why tell me now?”

“Because you’re ready.”

I lift my gaze. “Ready to run it?”

He shakes his head. “No. You need to finish college. Law school. Someday you’ll run it. You’ll run everything.”

“Okay,” I say.

“What you are ready for is to understand that the world is not divided between clean money and dirty money, Nathaniel. Only between money that gets caught and money that doesn’t.” He rises. “Come with me.”

I rise.

We leave the study.

The house is quiet at this hour. Portraits follow us down the corridor, generations of Vexley men and women painted in oils, their eyes flat.

Father leads me past the main staircase.

Past the east gallery.

Past rooms I know and rooms no one opens.