kroom's stale coffee aroma. "No. It can't be." The heavy, cream-colored letter trembled

hat pierced the New york skyline? A mistake. A cruel joke. Yet, the weig

the weak Wi-Fi. Finally, the search bar appeared. 'C

Icon.' Photos of a confident man shaking hands with presidents, unveiling futuristic gadgets. My father? Mom always sa

ng wave through me. Everything shifte

Marco's voice startled me. He leaned ag

nto my pocket. "Uh, yeah! Fine

I'm already dreaming of cheap takeout. Y

r? "Just... you know, the usual existential dread mixed with bill reminde

derson called again about her 'Zen Warrior'

ut normal had just walked out the door. I needed to escape. "Actually,

face. "Oh, yeah? Jeez, yeah, absolutely. Go h

eally." Relief fl

hit me – a symphony of horns, voices, and construction. "Focus. Get home". I n

for what? To discover my father was a criminal? The thought was bitter. O

Whitmor

ore Dead in Penthouse Plunge.' 'Apparent Suic

stomach. The bus lurched. Why? I clic

cant financial misconduct...' Embezzlement? Fraud? '...sources cite potential widespread embezzl

, his empire built on lies. And the debts... creditors lining up, lawsuits piling high, the

then... jumped? Anger, sharp and cold, cut thro

Capital circles struggling Whitmore Industries.' 'Blackwood acquiring W

s hum a constant backdrop, I sank into my worn armchair.

more. Tech billionaire. Genius. Fraud. Em

trophe? Lawyers, headlines, reporters. My quiet, difficult

to escape the student loans, the insulin co-pay anxiety? The lure of esca

n it. Forget it. Back to Page & Co., apologize to

ing of this 'estate.' Face lawyers, scandal, the ghost of Charles Whitmore. R

Sirens wailed. His epic rise and fall felt operatic, disconnected fro

ready to make. Ignore the ghost in the glass tower, or confro