Page 60 of His Daughter

"Open it."

I opened it — three pages, financial statements, revenue breakdowns. These were numbers I recognized, the same numbers Caine presented in his office and the ones Graham reviewed.

Except these didn't check out. Nolan had marked them with a red pen. A column of streaming revenue that didn't match the platform's publicly reported subscriber data. An advertising line item inflated by nearly 40%. A print revenue figure that held steady for three quarters because someone moved the same money between accounts to simulate consistency.

"Where did you get this?" I asked.

"I pulled the raw filings last night. Not the documents Caine presented — the Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC) filings, the platform's actual performance data, the advertising network's public rate cards." He folded his arms. "What Caine gave us was curated. What I'm showing you is real."

I looked at the numbers. The inconsistencies were glaring. The streaming platform didn't have four hundred thousand paying subscribers. It had a hundred and sixty thousand. The podcast network's advertising revenue was inflated by repackaging the same sponsorships across multiple shows and counting them separately.

"This company is bleeding," I said.

"It's worse than bleeding," Nolan said. "It's hollow. The shell is intact, but there's nothing behind it."

Julian pulled the folder toward him and read it. His face changed. "How did we miss this?"

That was the question. I always did my due diligence. Three partners reviewed every acquisition. The documentation went through legal. There was no way this should have gotten to the contract stage without someone catching it.

Unless someone made sure it didn't get caught.

I looked at Nolan. He looked back. The same thought, arriving at the same time.

Only four people handled Caine's documents — Julian, Nolan, me, and Graham.

I looked at Graham. He was standing by the window, phone in hand, his posture unchanged — spine straight, hands steady, the picture of professional composure. He met my eyes. His expression gave nothing away.

Graham was loyal. He'd been at my side through every deal, every crisis, every late night and early morning. He anticipated problems before they arrived.

But the documentation passed through his hands first. He reviewed it in thirty minutes and said it was clean.

I picked up my phone and dialed Caine.

"Declan! I'm ten minutes out. Are we — "

"Caine, I need to postpone. Something's come up. An internal matter I need to address before we proceed."

"Postpone? We shook hands, Declan. The terms are agreed. My lawyers are in the car."

"I understand, and I respect the handshake. But I wouldn't be doing my job if I signed a contract with an open question hanging over it. Give me a few days."

"This isn't how I do business."

"It's how I do mine. I'll call you by the end of the week."

I hung up before he could push further and set the phone on the table.

"Julian, I need you to pull every piece of documentation Caine provided since the first meeting. Every financial statement, every projection, every subscriber report. Compare them line by line against the public filings."

Julian nodded. He was already on his feet.

"Nolan, the related-party transactions. Trace them. I want to know where the money actually goes."

Nolan picked up his folder. "I'll have it by morning."

I turned to the lawyers. "David, hold the contract. Nothing goes out. Nothing gets signed. I'll brief you when we know more."

The associates gathered their copies. David nodded and left with his team. The conference room emptied. Graham moved toward the door.