Prescott pushed back from the table so violently his chair fell. He strode toward me, but even then I thought maybe he would try to drag me away, to hiss threats in private. Instead he turned toward the audience, spread his hands, and put on the most patronizing expression I had ever seen on his face.
“Please excuse my wife,” he said loudly. “She has been under tremendous stress and has unfortunately been struggling with mental health issues. She’s not well. We’ll get her the help she needs.”
That was the first time that night the room truly offended me. Not his lie. I expected that. It was how quickly people accepted it. How relieved they were to have a framework that preserved hierarchy. Crazy woman, not dangerous truth. Hysteria, not evidence. Disobedience, not whistleblowing.
“I am not hysterical,” I said.
Prescott turned to me, dropped the smile, and grabbed my shoulder hard. I pulled free.
“I am the senior risk analyst your father hired through Aldrich Consulting,” I said, looking not at Prescott but at the investors. “I have every ledger. Every email. Every forged approval chain. Every transfer route. I know exactly where the money went.”