Page 70 of Filthy Rich Daddies

“I did.” I set my coat over the back of the chair and sit.

One by one, the board members filter in—some curious, some tired, some clearly annoyed that they’ve been called in on a random morning. I nod to each, acknowledging them without inviting chatter.

Dean arrives last, still on the phone. He gives me a small nod, then sits beside me. When the door clicks shut, I begin.

“We’re in crisis,” I say. “We have a data breach impacting tens of thousands of customers. We’ve lost millions in revenue. Our CTO collapsed on national television after working fifty consecutive hours to hold the infrastructure together with duct tape and hope.”

I let that settle.

“We’ve had no CEO for three days. No cohesive leadership. No direction.”

Marcus clears his throat. “Yes, well, that’s exactly why I suggested?—”

“Do not interrupt.”

The room goes quiet.

I glance down at the file in front of me. “I’m offering a temporary solution. One that will allow us to stabilize without appointing a new CEO mid-crisis.” I slide a document across the table. “I’ll front a private bridge loan to cover the fallout—liquid, immediately available, no interest—on two conditions.”

Marcus leans forward. “Which are?”

“One. A full forensic audit of all payment systems, vendor accounts, and communication logs going back six months.”

There’s a ripple of surprise around the table. Someone murmurs, “Six?”

“Two,” I continue. “Unfettered oversight by a third-party cybersecurity firm of my choosing. Not yours. Not Finance’s. Mine.”

Marcus frowns. “That’s…aggressive.”

“We have a leak. A rat. Someone inside this company sold or mishandled information in a way that allowed this breach to happen, or they’re in on the leak and selling customer data. Malice or not, it ends now.”

Marcus spreads his hands. “This is exactly the kind of paranoia that makes people question Copeland leadership.”

I meet his gaze. “Our name is on the building. It’s the brand. If they don’t like our leadership, they know where the door is.”

He pauses. “And what if the audit points fingers in the wrong direction?”

I tilt my head. “Is there a wrong direction, Marcus? Or just a direction you don’t like?”

He falters, but rounds up his gumption. “Maybe it’s time we consider whether the Copeland brothers have too much emotional investment to make objective decisions. Perhaps it’s time the board looked outside the family.”

There it is. His real play.

I let the silence stretch. Then I lean forward, fold my hands on the table, and smile. “Excellent,” I say. “That’s exactly what the audit will help us determine.”

Marcus stiffens. His phone vibrates. He glances at it, then quickly silences it. His fingers twitch. A minute ago, he was smug.

Now, he’s texting. Good. Let him squirm.

After the meeting, Dean and I walk back into the hospital side by side.

The sun is higher now, but the chill hasn’t burned off yet. It feels sharp against my skin—bracing. Grounding.

“You sure about this?” Dean asks.

“No.”

He smiles. “Still doing it anyway?”