That's Enough, Percival

The press conference was Percy's idea, called before Voss's story ran, a preemptive strike.

Emeric hadn't been told it was happening until he saw the calendar invite thirty minutes before, his own name nowhere on it.

He watched from the back of the room as Percy stepped up to the podium, jaw set, every inch the heir the cameras had always loved.

"There have been allegations," Percy said, "regarding the signing of certain contracts. I want to be transparent with our shareholders and the press."

Emeric's stomach turned to ice.

"An employee — Emeric Marchetti, our internal counsel liaison — has been signing documents without my authorization, forging my signature on multiple occasions. I only discovered this recently. I take full responsibility for the oversight in my office, but I did not authorize these actions."

The room erupted in a wave of murmurs, phones lifting, a dozen cameras swinging toward the back where Emeric stood.

Thea, beside him, grabbed his arm. "Emeric—"

He couldn't speak. Twenty years of taking the stairs, and here was the bottom of them, wider than he'd ever imagined, everyone watching him fall.

A reporter shouted, "Mr. Ravenscroft, is Marchetti being terminated? Will there be legal action?"

Percy opened his mouth to answer.

And then, from the side entrance, a voice cut through the room — quiet, but the kind of quiet that silenced everything else instantly.

"That's enough, Percival."

Every head turned. Gideon Ravenscroft walked to the podium himself, seventy-one years old and moving like a man forty years younger, and put a hand on his son's shoulder — not gently.

"Step down," Gideon said. "Now."

"Dad—"

"I said step down."

Percy stepped back from the microphone, face draining of color.

Gideon looked out at the room, at the cameras, at Emeric standing frozen at the back.

"I have something to say," Gideon said, "and I'd like Mr. Marchetti to come up here while I say it."

Two hundred people turned to look at Emeric.

He didn't move. He couldn't.