Chapter 18 #2
“It’s a necessary one,” Preston replies.
“The market has erased nearly a fifth of the company’s value in two days. Investors are asking whether leadership can objectively investigate decisions leadership made.”
Several board members shift in their seats.
There it is.
Not an accusation..yet. A position. Preston has spent forty-eight hours watching the stock fall and deciding where the leverage is. Vivian closes the folder in front of her.
“A crisis committee may eventually be appropriate,” she says.
“It is not legally required at this stage, and I would strongly advise against creating governance structures simply because the press is demanding visible action.”
Preston turns toward her.
“And if the board disagrees?”
“Then the board can vote.”
He does. The motion passes narrowly enough to irritate me and comfortably enough to matter. Preston is appointed to the committee along with two other directors. By 3:00, he has converted market panic into institutional authority. I am gathering my papers when he speaks again.
“There’s one more issue.”
I stop. Preston looks toward Vivian before returning his attention to me.
“The journalist.”
My hand stills over the folder.
“What about her?”
“Sophie Callahan has had unusual access to this company over the past month.”
Adrian looks at me.
Preston continues.
“Executive offices. Archives. Boston. Milan. Private conversations with senior leadership.”
“She was here on an authorized profile,” I say.
“No one is disputing that,” Preston replies.
“I’m asking what she saw.”
“What she was permitted to see.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
I feel my temper tighten. Vivian intervenes before I answer.
“Preston, if you’re suggesting Ms. Callahan had access to privileged material, say so.”
“I’m asking whether anyone can guarantee she didn’t.”
“I can,” I say.
Adrian’s gaze moves toward me.
Preston leans back. “Based on what?”
“Because her access was structured.”
“Until Italy?”
The room goes quieter.
I stare at him.
“What exactly are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m asking whether the boundaries around her access remained as controlled overseas as they were here.”
“They did.”
Adrian turns slightly toward me.
“Julian,” he says, “what exactly did she have access to in Italy?”
I look at my brother.
“You too?”
“I’m asking a legitimate question.”
“She interviewed regional leadership. She toured operations. She reviewed approved historical material.”
“And outside the scheduled sessions?” Adrian asks.
My jaw tightens.
“She was with me.”
“That’s the point,” Preston says.
I look back at him.
“You don’t get to turn her into a suspect because you’re looking for one.”
Preston’s expression remains level.
“I’m not looking for a suspect. I’m looking for exposure.”
“She didn’t leak anything.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
Adrian shifts in his chair.
“Julian.”
I look at him sharply. His voice stays controlled.
“I’m not saying she did anything. But if she had unsupervised access to you while this issue was already developing, we need to know what was discussed.”
The words hit harder coming from him. I keep my voice even.
“Nothing confidential.”
Adrian watches me for a beat longer than I like.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
The answer comes immediately. What I don’t say is how much of Italy had stopped feeling like an interview.
That belongs to me. To us. Not this room.
Preston closes his folder.
“Then documenting that should be straightforward.”
I stand.
“If Legal wants a formal access review, Vivian can conduct it. You stay out of it.”
Preston looks up at me.
“You don’t have unilateral control over that anymore.”
The reminder lands exactly as he intends. I leave the boardroom before I say something that creates a second crisis. Adrian catches up with me in the corridor.
“Julian.”
I keep walking.
“Not now.”
“It needs to be now.”
I stop near the windows and turn toward him.
“What?”
Adrian lowers his voice.
“Dad has already ordered a broader access review.”
I stare at him.
“What access review?”
“Anyone who had recent unsupervised contact with you or me. Consultants, outside advisers, media, temporary staff. Anyone who might have been exposed to material the regulators could care about.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
“Without telling me.”
“He didn’t need your permission.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Adrian exhales.
“He’s scared.”
I look away toward the city.
Below us, press trucks still crowd the curb.
“What exactly did he order?”
“Routine vetting. Recent communications, access logs, visitor records, who met with whom, what rooms they entered, what systems they touched. Nothing unusual for this kind of crisis.”
“And Sophie?”
Adrian’s pause gives me the answer.
“She’s included.”
My eyes return to his.
“She’s a journalist.”
“Which is exactly why she’s included.”
I step closer.
“She had authorized access.”
“I know.”
“She didn’t do anything.”
“I didn’t say she did.”
“Then why is she being vetted?”
“Because Dad isn’t making exceptions based on who we like.”
The phrasing catches.
I hold Adrian’s gaze.
He notices.
“What happened in Italy?” he asks quietly.
“Nothing relevant to this investigation.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I don’t answer.
Adrian studies me for another second, then lets it go.
“There’s more,” he says.
“What?”
“Richard has locked down all outside media contact. No one speaks to press, journalists, producers, analysts, or media representatives without Communications and Legal clearing it first.”
I feel something cold settle in my stomach.
“All staff?”
“Everyone.”
“Executives?”
“Everyone, Julian.”
I look toward Daniel’s desk farther down the executive floor.
Adrian follows my gaze.
“Assistants have been instructed to block calls and route anything media-related directly to PR,” he says. “Daniel included.”
“Who authorized that?”
“Dad, Vivian, and Communications signed off.”
I shake my head.
“This is excessive.”
“It’s containment.”
“It’s panic.”
“It can be both.”
I look back at him.
For once, Adrian doesn’t soften the point.
“We have reporters camping outside the building, regulators collecting communications, and board members trying to carve up authority while the stock is bleeding,” he says. “Dad is trying to shut every open door until we know where this came from.”
I understand the logic.
That makes it worse. Because in another context, I might have ordered the same thing.
I look through the glass toward the conference rooms where Legal is still working.
“So no one gets through?”
“Not without clearance.”
My work phone vibrates again in my hand. Daniel appears at the end of the corridor and waits until I look toward him.
“Vivian needs you back in conference room three,” he says.
“Outside counsel is ready.”
I nod. Adrian steps aside. The conversation is over because another one has already replaced it. I follow Daniel toward the conference room, but Preston’s question stays with me.
What exactly did she have access to in Italy?
For the first time since this started, the crisis reaches beyond the company.
***
The next several days stop having clean edges.
Morning becomes afternoon inside conference rooms. Afternoon becomes night beneath fluorescent lights and financial models.
I sleep when exhaustion forces the issue, shower in the executive suite, change shirts, and start again.
Every time I think we have contained one part of the investigation, another regulator requests documents, another investor demands assurances, or another board member decides the crisis is an opportunity to question decisions that were considered brilliant six months ago.
Twice, I take out my personal phone with every intention of calling Sophie.
The first time, I am alone in my office after midnight.
Her name is still near the top of my recent calls, and seeing it brings back the image of her standing in the foyer at the estate, looking at me as though neither of us believed goodbye meant anything permanent.
My thumb hovers over her number. Then I hear Preston's voice again.
What exactly did she have access to in Italy?
I hate that the question has followed me here.
I know what Sophie was authorized to see.
I know what we discussed professionally.
I also know how much time we spent alone, how easily the boundaries between interview and conversation disappeared, and how little attention I paid to categorizing every word once she stopped feeling like a journalist sitting across from me.
I don't believe she betrayed me.
The problem is that belief and certainty are no longer the same thing.
I start going back through conversations I hadn't questioned when they happened.
Questions she asked over dinner. Things she noticed in Milan.
The hours we spent talking without a recorder or notebook between us.
None of it feels sinister when I replay it, but I am now surrounded by people whose job is to find exposure in ordinary details.
My phone rings before I make the call.
Vivian.
I answer.
“Tell me something good.”
“I can't,” Vivian says.
“Conference room three. Ten minutes.”
The phone returns to my pocket.
Sophie remains uncalled.
Two days later, I try again.
I make it as far as opening a new message.
Julian: Are you back in Philadelphia?
I stare at the words.
They look harmless.
But nothing feels harmless anymore.
Daniel knocks before entering my office.
“Outside counsel moved the executive review up,” he says.
“They need you downstairs now.”
“What happened?”
“New request from Brussels.”
I delete the unfinished message and stand. By the end of the week, the investigation has swallowed every private channel I normally take for granted.
The legal briefing happens late Friday afternoon. Vivian sits at the far end of the conference table with Martin Ellis and two additional attorneys from outside counsel. Adrian is beside me, reading through a preservation memorandum thick enough to make the point before anyone explains it.
Martin closes his laptop.
“We need to discuss communications discipline.”
Adrian looks up. “Again?”