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“—which brings us to the proposed amendment to Section Fourteen of the bylaws,” Bradley Whitcomb says, adjusting his glasses. “As you can see on page thirty-seven of the packet, the current language allows for discretionary fund allocation by executive approval, but the revised language would require board acknowledgment prior to redistribution—”
I stop listening.
Page thirty-seven.
Christ.
I sit at the head of the polished mahogany table, my expression pleasantly neutral, my spine straight, my hands folded in front of me like I’m not imagining the entire board buried in the woods somewhere behind Vexley House.
The men around me drone on about audits, reports, financial disclosures, planned giving structures, annual compliance, restricted funds, unrestricted funds, governance standards, and all the other polished phrases people use when they’re trying not to say money laundering.
The Vexley Foundation.
A nonprofit dedicated to aiding people rehabilitating from life-threatening injuries.
That’s the official mission.
It sounds noble. The brochures are excellent. The gala videos are especially effective. Soft piano. Survivors smiling. Doctors shaking hands with donors. Children running in slow motion across lawns.
People eat that shit up.
They open their wallets, write their checks, pose for photos, and tell themselves they’ve participated in goodness.
And maybe some of them have.
The foundation does good work because good work makes excellent cover. Money comes in clean, goes out cleaner, and along the way, certain funds are redirected, restructured, reclassified, and reborn.
My father’s specialty.
And now, apparently, mine.
I almost laugh. Instead, I make a note in the margin of the packet in front of me. Not because I care about whatever Whitcomb is droning on about, but because everyone expects the CEO to appear engaged.
CEO of the Vexley Foundation, a position vacated by my father.
Except Arthur Vexley never vacates anything. He simply moves pieces around as if he’s playing a merciless game of chess.
This time, I’m the piece.
“Mr. Vexley?”
I lift my eyes. Bradley Whitcomb is looking at me from the far end of the table, his eyebrows raised.
“Yes?” I say.
He purses his lips.
Uh oh. Apparently he asked me a question.
Apparently I missed it.
Apparently I don’t give a flying fuck.
“As I was saying,” Whitcomb continues, “we’ll need your approval before putting the amendment to a full vote.”
“Fine,” I say. “I approve.”
A few men blink.
