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Anthony cleared his throat. “You’re aware of the headlines?”
“The Cut of Her Jibbankruptcy?” I said dryly. “Hard to miss.”
A flicker of irritation crossed Valencia’s face. “Not just that. We’ve had calls. Louisa’s sudden departure has spooked donors. Without a replacement in place, the gala’s attendance is down by nearly twenty percent—and that was just this morning.”
I inhaled slowly. “I’m working on the Louisa situation.”
“Are you?” One of the older trustees leaned forward, fingers steepled. “Because from where we’re sitting, Damian, it looks like you’ve got one hand on a sinking ship and the other tangled in your personal life.”
Anthony shot the man a quick warning glance, but Valencia waved it off.
“Let’s speak plainly,” Valencia said, folding his hands on the polished table. “Your real estate portfolio is impressive, Damian. California, Miami, Europe. But inherited wealth isn’t the same as earned trust. You know that.”
The room went still. Not a cough. Not a shuffle of paper.
I forced a measured smile. “I’ve been a patron of the arts since long before Vérité came calling. I’ve funded exhibitions, supported young artists, and chaired restitution committees. My personal commitment to this foundation hasn’t wavered.”
The judge lifted an eyebrow. “But the public’s perception of you has.”
A beat of silence. The old-school boardroom kind—the one designed to sweat you out.
Valencia leaned back slightly. “We’re suggesting something simple. A gesture. Sell one of your Miami condo properties. CoverThe Cut of Her Jibdebt yourself. Show donors that you’reinvested—not just in returning stolen art, but in the survival of this institution.”
Anthony’s eyes flicked to mine — sympathetic but cautious. This wasn’t his fight to win for me.
I exhaled slowly, fingertips tapping once against the table. “I’ve spent months building this foundation’s reputation. I won’t deny the optics are bad right now. But I’m not walking away because we hit rough water. I’ll take care of the debt. I’ll secure the lineup for the Vérité Annual Gala. And I’ll have a candidate shortlist for Louisa’s replacement before the board reconvenes.”
The room stirred — a soft rustle of approval, doubt, or both.
“And if you don’t?” Valencia asked quietly.
I looked him dead in the eye. “Then I’ll step down.”
It hung there, sharp as a blade.
Judge Valencia’s expression softened—just a fraction. “You have until the gala.”
Anthony gave a small nod. “We all want to see you succeed, Damian.”
The meeting adjourned with a scrape of chairs and the low murmur of parting words. Papers shuffled, tablets closed, polite smiles deployed as the board members filed out one-by-one.
I stayed seated.
For a long moment, I watched the streetlights flicker to life outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, their glow catching on the polished floors as headlights traced soft ribbons of light across the glass. The weight of it all—the money, the expectations, thebrittle edge of trust—settled across my shoulders like a coat I’d been wearing too long to notice.
The office was quiet once they were gone. I sank into the leather chair behind my desk, the cushions sighing under my weight as I yanked loose the knot of my tie and let it hang limp around my collar. The Miami skyline glimmered beyond the window—streetlights, car beams, the distant neon haze buzzing to life as the city shifted into night.
For a while, I just sat there. Breathing.
The boardroom echoes still rang in my head—Valencia’s sharp-edged words, Anthony’s measured disappointment, the donors’ carefully veiled doubts. It all blurred together into one heavy refrain:Are you the man for this, Damian?
My gaze drifted over the rows of buildings, the crowded avenues, the faint shimmer of the bay beyond.
I wondered—not for the first time—if all I’d done was polish the edges of my father’s empire. If anything I’d touched was truly mine. Real estate portfolios, corporations, and development deals. Legacy wrapped in a suit.
And love?
That was the part I couldn’t seem to hold on to.