Charlie George Moreau's office was silent when Val stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind her, and the weight of the board meeting still hung in the air like dust that hadn't yet settled.
She didn't start with pleasantries.
"Is it true?"
Charlie didn't look up immediately. He stood behind his desk, hands braced on the surface, shoulders rigid. The only movement was the slow rise and fall of his breath.
"Dad," she pressed, softer, but firm.
His jaw flexed. "It hasn't been confirmed yet."
Val's heartbeat ticked up. "But he has twenty-eight percent, doesn't he?" Her voice wasn't accusing—just steady, controlled, the way she handled every crisis except the ones that hit home.
Charlie finally met her eyes. Nothing softened. "That's what it appears to be."
She felt the floor shift beneath her. Twenty-eight percent. Enough to shake the building. Enough to shift power. Enough to cause damage.
"What… what are we going to do?" she asked.
