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“Who wrote it. Who submitted it. Who paid for it if someone did. Where the documents came from. Who else received copies. Every digital trail you can legally follow.”

“Understood.”

“And I want to know who fed them the research.”

Because that's bothering me. The timing is too fucking perfect.

Layla completes a search on Granddad from my office after Myrna opens her vile mouth. And less than twenty-four hours later, an anonymous writer publishes a twisted version of the same information.

And me? I accused Layla.

Jesus Christ, how could I be so dumb?

I close my eyes.

I accused Layla.

The woman whose entire fucking career is built on not publishing something she can't substantiate. The woman I researched precisely because her integrity impressed me. The woman who told me exactly who she was from the beginning.

And when it mattered? I forgot all of it. I reacted to bad information—and I did it poorly.

“Anything else?” Noel Kane from Sigma asks.

“Yes.” I tell him. “Move fast.”

Then I call Legal.

“Get ready to a file suit.”

My general counsel sighs. It's the sigh of a man who's worked for me long enough to know that tone.

“Against whom?”

“The publication that ran the Knight story.”

“We're already drafting a demand for retraction.”

“I didn't ask for a retraction.”

“Mitchell—”

“I want you to sue the fuck out of them.”

Pause.

“That's the official legal instruction?”

“Yes.”

“I'll clean up the wording.”

“Don't bother.”

Another sigh.

“They're going to argue public figure, opinion, questions rather than assertions⁠—”

“They presented insinuation as evidence, ignored historical context, and implied Knight Global's wealth originated through relationships with governments engaged in persecution. It's false.”