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Fuck.

My father’s sister. Not technically one of the trustees—worse. Conrad appointed her as the board’s overseer. The neutral party. The one who’s supposed to make sure the trustees follow the letter of the trust and don’t use it as a weapon.

Conrad called her neutral.

That was generous.

I answer on the second ring.

"Genevieve."

"Everett." No warmth. No small talk. Genevieve doesn’t do preamble. "The board has requested a meeting tomorrow morning. Ten a.m. At the tower."

I sit back in my chair.

"Regarding what."

"The marriage clause."

I stop breathing for about two full seconds.

"What specifically about the marriage clause?"

A pause. Not a long one. Just long enough to tell me she’s picking her words.

"They didn’t share details with me," she says. "Only that it was urgent."

Right. And I’m a man who takes vacations.

"Understood," I say.

"I’ll see you tomorrow."

The line goes dead.

I set the phone on the desk. Pick it back up. Set it down again.

Then I call Christian.

He answers on the first ring because Christian always answers on the first ring when it’s me. Fourteen years of cleaning up Kauffman disasters has given him a sixth sense for the sound of incoming bullshit.

"What happened?"

"Genevieve. Board meeting tomorrow. Ten o’clock. Marriage clause."

Silence.

"That’s not good."

"No."

"Did she say what they have?"

"She said she didn’t know."

Christian lets out a breath. "Of course she did." A pause. "All right. I’m coming to the tower. Call Everly. Don’t go home yet. And cancel the rest of your day."

"Already on it."