The clock was ticking.
With the promotion of the Moretti Foundation just a day away, tensions were already boiling behind closed doors. Meanwhile, Gerald sat in the cold, quiet space of the prison visitor's lounge, waiting—calculating. It had been exactly twenty-four hours since he issued Clifford that ultimatum.
Just then, one of the guards stepped forward.
"You have a visitor," he said.
Gerald's head lifted slightly.
"Your daughter."
A rare, warm smile crossed his face.
Sarah.
She had promised to visit him today.
But the moment he stepped out and saw who it was, the smile slipped.
Britney.
Still his child, still a reflection of him—but cold, unreadable. Her expression was the same as always: empty, sharp-edged, and impossible to soften.
"Well," he said, forcing a smile, "at least one of my children is keeping things under control."
Britney didn't return the sentiment.
"Hi, Dad," she said plainly, her voice clipped.
