Sophie gestured to the couch, her hand trembling slightly. "Sit. Please." Her voice became thin, like paper about to tear.
Mr. Kim and the two board members perched stiffly on the threshold of the cushions, their fits creasing.
Mr. Kim pulled a newspaper from his briefcase. The headline screamed: PEREZ FAMILY ATTACKED—BUSINESS EMPIRE AT RISK? An image in their house, nevertheless draped in police tape, filled the front page.
"This is everywhere," Mr. Kim said, tapping the paper. "Online. News channels. Social media."
Nicole's belly dropped.
"You're public figures," Mr. Kim continued, his voice icy. "Every word. Every move. The world will watch."
Sophie sank right into a chair, her arms gripping the armrests.
Mr. Kim stood, straightening his tie. "There is an emergency assembly the next day that will be live-streamed. Investors want confidence. Your father's legacy wishes for confidence."
Nicole's throat tightened. "Live-streamed?"
"Yes, and on Charles's orders. If he's… unavailable, you represent him." Mr Kim added.
He held out a leather folder stamped together, along with her father's agency logo—a golden gear.
Nicole froze. "Me?"
"No substitutes," Mr. Kim said. His gaze did not waver. "His genuine words."
"No mistakes," Mr. Kim stated, staring her down. "Dress professionally. Speak clearly. No emotions."
Sophie nodded robotically. "She'll be ready."
Berry snorted. "What if she's not?"
Nicole took the folder, its weight overseas in her hands. The leather felt cold, impersonal. "I can not do this. I'm not… ready."
Mr. Kim's expression did not flicker. "Your father disagreed."
Berry snorted, now no longer searching up from her phone. "Classic Dad."
Mr. Kim left her, marching to the door. "Nine a.m."
After the board members left, Nicole dropped the folder on the table in the sitting room. The sound echoed through the house. "Why me? Uncle Marcus could've—"
Sophie collapsed forward, her face buried in her hands.
"Your father relied on you," Sophie snapped.
Nicole stared at the newspaper photo—their porch, the shattered window, her blurred discernment within the background.
Nicole's phone buzzed. An information alert popped up: Charles Perez's Daughter to Lead Crisis Meeting—Can She Save the Company?
She picked up the folder. Papers scattered. "I can not do this."
Sophie grabbed her wrist, nails digging in. "You have to."
"What if I mess up?" Nicole muttered,
Sophie replied again, "You won't."
The phone rang, sharp and sudden. Sophie fumbled with the receiver, almost losing it.
"Surgery's at 7 a.m., ma," the nurse said. "Family has to be here."
Sophie nodded, though no person ought to see. Her throat felt too tight to speak.
Berry hovered in the doorway. "Dad?"
"Tomorrow," Sophie managed.
Nicole paused while picking up the papers from the floor..
The phone rang again. Sophie stared at it like it would bite.
"Sophie?" A gravelly voice crackled through the line—Marcus, Charles's brother. Distant honking and Spanish chatter buzzed at the back of him. "I simply noticed the information. How is he?"
Sophie sank right into a chair. "Coma. Surgery tomorrow."
"Dios mío," Marcus muttered. "I'll seize the primary flight."
Nicole crept closer, gathering the spilled papers.
"Don't bother," Sophie said, her voice flat.
Marcus paused. "He's my brother."
The line went dead.
Berry picked up a fallen page—a graph labeled Quarterly Profits. "What's Uncle Marcus gonna do? Fix everything?"
Sophie did not answer.
Nicole stared at the phone, her jaw set.
Nicole fled to her room, the folder deserted on her desk.
Berry leaned within the doorway to her room, "You suppose Dad knew it might be like this?"
Nicole did not answer.
Upstairs, Nicole's room felt smaller than she remembered. Childhood trophies coated the shelves—spelling bees, football medals, a dusty ribbon for "Best Science Fair Project." A dwindled poster of the Golden Gate Bridge hung crookedly above her bed. She flopped onto the mattress, the folder creaking as she opened it.
A pile of contracts cloaked in the corners of Nicole's desk, left by neglect. She flicked her eyes, and the words merger and liability just started to trickle down the page. A sticky note from her father's collection, titled Trust your gut, was stuck on the wall above her laptop, with its edges becoming frayed.
Her phone buzzed on the desk, racing against a coffee mug. She ignored it and wrote at the foot of a budget report.'... The buzz came again. And again. And again. The screen illuminated her face, revealing a pale complexion and lingering bruises on her jaw.
Instagram: Jonathan_Shepherd followed you.
Jonathan_Shepherd liked your photo.
Jonathan_Shepherd liked your video.
Jonathan_Shepherd liked your post from 2 weeks ago.
"Seriously, what?" she muttered, taking hold of the phone.
She was seen in her graduation pictures wearing a yellow sundress and pretending to smile with Charles, who had her favorite baseball cap on. Jonathan had liked each one.
She muttered, "What's the problem with this guy?" and then she threw the phone away from her bed.
It limped off the sheets and hit the ground.'...
She intended to concentrate on the documents. Stakeholder equity distributions… The words blurred. With the phone still lit, she glanced at it and noticed a flickering screen on the carpet. To concentrate on the documents. With the phone still lit, she glanced at it and noticed a flickering screen on the carpet.
She got out of the chair and lifted it, a minute later.
Jonathan_Shepherd: Hi. Saw you online. How's your dad?
She stared at the message. The cursor blinked in the reply box.
Nicole_Perez: Surgery's tomorrow.
The reply came fast.
Jonathan_Shepherd: Need company? Coffee?
She snorted. Coffee? Her life was collapsing. Her thumb hovered.
Nicole Perez: Not now. Going through stuff.
Jonathan_Shepherd: When you're ready.
The phone buzzed again.
Jonathan_CA: I'll wait.
She didn't reply. Instead, she opened his profile. She glanced at his pictures.
A faint smile tugged at her lips. Then guilt crashed over her. Her father was in a coma.
With her head in her hands, she slammed the phone down.
She went back to her chair, picked up a sheet of the document.
"By Section 7.3…" she examined aloud, her voice cracking. "What does that even mean?"
She flipped to a diagram of delivery chains, arrows looping among containers labeled "Manufacturing" and "Distribution." Her father's handwriting stuffed the margins—Nicole assessed this! Scribbled in blue ink.
Her eyes blurred. She fell asleep mid-sentence, her cheek pressed to the paper, the ink smudging in opposition to her skin.
Nicole woke to dusk, her neck stiff and her mouth dry. The folder had slipped to the floor, pages scattered like fallen leaves.
She stumbled to the kitchen, grabbed a water bottle, and gulped it down through her throat.
Voices drifted from the backyard.
Berry stood by rose bushes, phone pressed to her ear. The placement of solar painted her in streaks of orange and purple. "You guys did well," she whispered, and she again turned.
Nicole froze, the water bottle slipping from her hand. It hit the patio stones with a clatter.
Berry spun around, eyes wide. She hung up quickly, shoving the phone into her pocket. "It's nothing," she said, too fast.
"Who was that?" Nicole asked
Berry shrugged. "Wrong number.".