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“Is someone looking?” he finally asks.

“Not yet,” I say. “But a project this big invites scrutiny. The Vexley name invites scrutiny.”

Silence again. This time for what seems like an eternity. Until finally⁠—

“Have the architects produce another version.”

I straighten. “Yes. I’ll contact them.”

“The public timeline doesn’t move.”

“Of course.”

“The donor board hears nothing.”

“Nothing.”

“And Nathaniel?”

I tighten my hand around the phone. “Yes?”

“Well done.”

The call ends.

I keep the phone pressed to my ear for three seconds after the line goes dead. Then I lower it slowly and stare at the screen.

He agreed.

I’ve argued with my father a thousand times in a thousand careful ways. He yields nothing unless yielding serves a purpose.

Today he yielded.

Why?

Maybe the argument was that good.

Maybe the plans really were too blatant, and he saw the risk the moment I named it.

Maybe he trusts me more than I think.

I almost laugh.

No.

Arthur Vexley trusts no one.

So why did he give in?

He sounded distracted. Occupied with something else. Or someone else.

And then cold realization washes over me.

Fuck.

I was so amazed that my father agreed so readily that I forgot to ask about Samson and Delaney.

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