The valet took the keys as Atlas pushed through the glass doors. His neck cracked twice—left, right—as the elevator climbed. The sound meant he'd been tense for hours.
The metal doors slid open on thirty-four.
Charles's assistant was waiting. She didn't speak, just gestured with her chin. Down the hall.
Atlas passed her. She didn't follow.
---
The study was all floor-to-ceiling windows and chrome. Too bright. Too clean. Charles liked things sterile when they got complicated.
Alice was sprawled on the couch, tablet balanced on her knee. Her eyes didn't look up, but her fingers stopped scrolling.
Evelyn sat in the chair by the window, coffee cup suspended halfway to her mouth. She was watching him like she already knew what he was going to do.
Charles stood at the far end, one hand on the remote. He wasn't clicking it. Just gripping it.
When Atlas walked in, Charles released it like it was poisoned.
"Marina?" Alice asked. Still not looking at him.
Atlas didn't answer. He unbuttoned his jacket and sat down across from her, stretching his legs out. One ankle crossed over the other. He adjusted his cufflinks—right sleeve, then left—in that controlled way he had when he was buying time.
Evelyn took a sip of her coffee. Set it down a little harder than necessary. The cup clinked against the marble.
"You in a hurry?" she asked.
Atlas just looked at her.
"Coffee?" Charles offered.
"No."
Alice finally lifted her eyes from the tablet. They were the same cold gray as his. She scanned his face—quick, surgical—then looked at Evelyn. Her eyebrow went up a fraction.
Evelyn's mouth twitched.
Alice leaned forward, elbows on her knees.
"Did you know your dad's a fucking genius?"
Atlas's jaw tightened. The muscle jumped once. He flexed his left hand. Relaxed it.
"Keep going," he said.
Charles turned on the screen. A spreadsheet filled it. Dates, times, amounts.
"Your board members really like to donate."
"Everyone donates."
"Yeah." Charles pointed. "Except these five? Same day. Same hour. Same account."
Alice cut in. "Literally within minutes of each other."
Evelyn leaned back. "Sometimes seconds."
Atlas shifted forward. His eyes narrowed at the screen. He was reading faster than he could speak, pulling out the pattern everyone else was too lazy to see.
"Coordinated," he said.
Alice grinned. There was nothing warm in it. "Or five people figured out telepathy."
"We don't believe in telepathy," Evelyn said.
The silence that followed had weight.
"Richard," Atlas said. Not a question.
Nobody answered.
Charles cleared his throat. "No direct evidence. Pattern only."
"Pattern's enough."
Evelyn set her coffee down. "Not in a courtroom."
Atlas turned to look at her. Slowly. Like he was measuring the distance between them.
"Are we going to court?"
She held his stare. "You tell me."
He didn't. Alice jumped in, impatient.
"We can get proof. But—"
"How long?"
"Two weeks. Maybe—"
"Too long."
Evelyn nodded like she'd expected that. "So you're gambling."
"What am I gambling on?"
"On being right with no evidence." She picked up her cup again, this time actually drank from it. "Your father gets publicly humiliated. Everyone sides with him. You lose half the family."
She set the cup down. Watched him process it.
"Or you're wrong, and you've just accused him of coordinating with his board. On a hunch."
Atlas's fingers tapped once against the armrest. Twice. Then stopped.
"I'd rather have the second one."
Alice smiled. Actual teeth. "Good."
Evelyn nodded. Slow. Evaluative.
Charles changed the screen.
"There's something else," he said.
"Yeah?"
"Finance side." Charles pulled up account transfers. The numbers made patterns. Layered patterns. Money laundering to anyone who knew how to listen.
Alice stood up and walked over to the espresso machine. Pressed a button.
Nothing happened.
She hit it again. Harder.
The machine whined to life.
She didn't wait for it to finish—just grabbed the cup and came back.
"Three accounts. Money's moving constantly." She stayed standing, tablet in one hand, coffee in the other. "Basic structuring. But—"
She smiled again. Different. Sharper.
"These assholes are stupid."
Charles corrected quietly: "Sloppy."
"No. Stupid."
She squatted down next to Atlas, held the tablet closer. He didn't move, just looked at the screen.
"These three." Her finger traced the path. "Split into chunks. Different destinations. Standard stuff."
She stopped.
"Except. Round numbers. 100,000. 250,000. 500,000."
Evelyn leaned forward slightly. "Nobody transfers 100,000."
"Exactly. You do 9,847. 10,231. Never 10,000." Alice swiped through. "And all three approved from the same IP. Same computer. Probably same person."
The room went quiet.
Atlas handed the tablet back. His hand was steady.
"Really stupid," he said.
Alice stood up, took a sip of her coffee, grimaced. Returned to her couch. Curled up in the corner like she owned the place.
Charles changed screens again.
"Thomas's side is—more interesting."
Atlas watched him.
"Two companies in London. Both connected to Thomas."
"How connected?"
"Director listings. He's listed as a partner on both."
"And?"
"And they're ghosts. One director is seventy-eight years old, probably didn't even know he was listed. That company hasn't moved a penny. The other one shares an address with an accounting firm."
Evelyn finished the thought: "Shell companies."
Charles nodded. "Both of them transferred to the same account three times in the last six months."
Atlas lowered his voice. "Which account?"
"Unknown. Anonymous holdings." Charles paused. "But the transfers happened the same day as payments to Thomas's lawyer."
"Coincidence," Atlas said.
Evelyn smiled like she understood the joke. "Obviously."
Alice opened her tablet again, pulled something up.
"Went into the email server this morning," she said.
Charles turned to her. "How'd you get in?"
She shrugged. "Your IT department's garbage." She scrolled. "Anyway. There's correspondence sent to the board. None of it official channels."
"What kind of correspondence?"
"Restructuring plans. With Richard's signature."
Charles added: "Older version. Draft. Never submitted."
"And in that draft," Alice looked right at Atlas, "your name isn't on it."
Nobody moved.
Atlas leaned back. Closed his eyes. Breathed in through his nose. His jaw clenched so hard his temples moved. Then he opened his eyes again.
Evelyn was watching him. Not with curiosity. With recognition.
"They're setting you up," she said quietly. "Getting you out."
Atlas nodded. One slow movement.
"I know."
"Stage of preparation," Alice said. "They haven't triggered yet."
"When will they?"
"Week. Maybe a month."
Charles kept his eyes on the screen. Like if he looked away, everything would fall apart.
Evelyn drained what was left of her coffee. Set the empty cup on the marble table. It made a small, final sound.
"You need to be ready," she said.
Atlas didn't respond.
His phone vibrated. In his pocket. Against his ribs.
He pulled it out. Looked at the screen.
His entire expression shifted. Just for a second. The way someone's face changes when they read something they weren't expecting. Something that cuts through everything else.
He killed the screen fast. Placed the phone face-down on the table.
Alice's head came up. "Noah?"
Atlas didn't answer.
Evelyn and Alice exchanged a look that said they already knew.
The silence stretched. Thirty seconds. Longer.
Evelyn picked up her empty cup. Put it down again. Picked it up.
"Where were you this morning?" she asked.
Atlas didn't move. Then he did. A pause that lasted maybe half a second. Just long enough for everyone to notice.
"Out."
"Where out?"
He turned to face her completely. "Marina."
Evelyn nodded. Slow. Measuring. "Alone?"
Charles was pretending very hard to look at the screen. Alice had gone still.
"No," Atlas said.
"With Noah?"
"Yes."
Evelyn set down her cup. Folded her hands. "Did you tell him?"
"Tell him what?"
She gestured around the room. The screens. The graphs. The evidence. All of it.
"This."
"No."
"You going to?"
"No."
"Why not?"
Atlas's voice went cold. Not angry—worse. Like ice. "Because there's no need."
Evelyn smiled. Sad. "There's always a need."
"Not this time," he said.
Alice shifted forward. Her voice was lower now. Quieter, but it cut through anyway. "If this blows up—Noah blows up with it."
"It's not going to blow up."
Charles tried: "You can't control—"
"Noah's not going to be involved."
Alice leaned back. Studied him like he was something she was trying to understand. "You really believe that?"
Atlas got to his feet. Sharp. Quick. Walked to the window. His hands went into his pockets. His back to all of them.
"Nothing's going to happen to him."
Evelyn didn't look away. "You can't promise that."
He turned around slowly. His eyes had gone very dark.
"Watch me."
Nobody moved.
Evelyn smiled. Didn't break his gaze. Alice crossed her arms and nodded—tiny, almost invisible acknowledgment.
Charles swallowed hard.
Atlas came back to the table.
"Talked to Richard?" Charles asked.
"No."
"Maybe you should."
Atlas looked at him. Long. Hard. Like he was trying to figure out if Charles was stupid or just pretending.
"Or don't," Charles added quickly.
Atlas grabbed the folder Charles slid across. Didn't open it.
"Everything comes through me. Anything you find—direct. To me."
He looked at all three of them. One after another.
"Charles. Get legal ready. Not defense. Counter-attack."
Charles nodded.
"Alice. Get everything. All of it. The dirty shit too."
Alice grinned. "Already am."
"Evelyn. Predict their next move. Three steps ahead."
Evelyn: "Always do."
He headed for the door. Put his hand on the knob. Stopped without turning around.
"One more thing."
All three waited.
"We're not defending anymore."
He opened the door. Left.
The door closed behind him.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then Alice sat up and looked at Evelyn.
"He's going to burn it all down," Alice said.
Evelyn picked up her empty coffee cup. Studied it.
"Yeah," she agreed. "He is."
Silence.
Charles went pale.
"What about Noah?" he asked quietly.
Neither of them answered.
---
In the car, Atlas gripped the steering wheel. His knuckles were white.
His phone sat on the passenger seat. Dark. Waiting.
The phone buzzed again.
He didn't look at it.
He pressed harder on the gas instead, weaving through traffic like he could outrun what he already knew: that everything was about to get very complicated, and Noah was standing right in the middle of it.
He'd promised nothing would happen to him.
His knuckles were still white on the wheel.
He'd meant it.