The headline on the tablet screamed in bold, red font: *THE CRUMBLING SHRINE: IS THE VANCE CONSERVATORY A DEATH TRAP?*
William Croft stood in the boardroom, watching his investors panic. Cynthia Sharpe had struck with lethal precision. The article, planted in a major financial daily, cited “anonymous engineers” claiming the glass structure was unstable and the foundation was sinking. It painted the Conservatory not as a gift to the city, but as the dangerous “vanity project” of a grief-stricken widower.
“Three backers have pulled out since this morning,” the CFO said nervously. “They’re calling it a liability.”
“It is a lie,” William slammed his hand on the table. “The structural integrity is flawless. We just reviewed the acoustics yesterday.”
“The truth doesn’t matter, William,” a board member said gently. “The perception does. Cynthia controls the narrative. She’s making you look like a man losing his grip on reality.”
William walked to the window, looking out at the steel skeleton of the building rising in the distance. It was the only thing keeping him tethered to Victoria’s memory, and Cynthia was trying to turn it into a tomb.