Chapter 4 - The Whispers In The Boardroom
While Damian chased phantoms through the mountains of Northern California, the corporate empire he had spent fifteen years building began to bleed from within.
News of the tragic death of the Moretti heir and the sudden disappearance of the CEO's wife leaked onto the front pages of the business press. Wall Street analysts questioned his mental fitness as he missed three consecutive quarterly earnings calls and allowed a multi-billion dollar logistics merger to stall in regulatory review.
"Damian, you need to step down as chairman temporarily," his chief operating officer and lifelong friend, Julian, urged in a tense, closed-door boardroom meeting.
"I am not stepping down," Damian snapped, his eyes bloodshot, his beard overgrown and unkempt. "The company is performing well above market targets."
"The stock dropped seven percent this morning because rumors are circulating that you abandoned your wife in labor for a socialite!" Julian slammed a tablet onto the glass table, displaying a viral news article that laid bare every detail of that tragic night.
"Who leaked this?" Damian whispered, his face turning pale.
"Does it matter?" Julian countered, leaning across the table with genuine anger. "What matters is that it's true! I covered for you for eight months while you chased Alessia around the Mediterranean! I told myself you were just blowing off steam before the baby came! But you let that boy die without a father holding him, Damian!"
"I was in the air! The headwinds delayed the jet!" Damian yelled, defensive panic rising in his chest.
"You delayed the jet!" Julian shouted back, pointing an accusing finger directly at his chest. "I saw the flight log from the charter company in Nice! You held the aircraft on the tarmac for fifty-five minutes because Alessia forgot her designer luggage at the resort villa! Don't lie to me, and don't lie to yourself!"
Damian froze, the truth stripping away the last shreds of his self-deception.
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He remembered sitting on the leather seat of the Gulfstream, tapping his foot impatiently while Alessia’s driver sped back to the hotel to retrieve a pair of sunglasses and a silk scarf. He had told himself fifty minutes wouldn't make a difference.
Those fifty-five minutes were the exact margin of time our son had spent gasping for air before his tiny heart stopped beating forever.
