Chapter 74: Transparency

Marcus's POV

The glass façade of McKay Enterprises reflects the city back at itself—steel and sky and ambition stacked into neat, unforgiving lines. I’ve walked into this building a hundred times before, usually a step behind my father, usually silent. Today is different.

Today, I lead.

Anna is on my right, her hand warm in mine, steady in a way that has nothing to do with calm and everything to do with resolve. Courtney walks just ahead with Damian, already scanning the lobby like she’s cataloguing exits, allies, angles. Peter trails half a step behind me, shoulders loose, eyes sharp—my youngest brother wearing confidence like armor he forged himself.

And me?

I’m trying not to limp.

The injury is still there, a dull ache that flares if I forget myself, but I welcome it. Pain is grounding. Pain reminds me that I’m here, that this moment isn’t some abstract nightmare playing out on a screen.

Heads turn the second we step through the revolving doors. Conversations falter. Phones pause mid-scroll. A security guard straightens, uncertainty flickering across his face as he recognizes us—not just as Richard McKay’s sons, but as the problem no one expected to walk in together.

“Eyes forward,” Peter murmurs, a grin tugging at his mouth. “We look terrifying.”

Anna squeezes my hand once, subtle but deliberate. You’ve got this.

Bella’s message buzzes in my pocket.

Bella: We’re five minutes out. Elevator lobby is already crawling with press on the lower floors. Don’t wait.

I don’t reply. I just nod once to myself and steer us toward the elevators.

The ride up is silent, the kind of silence that hums with anticipation. Damian watches the floor numbers climb like he’s memorizing them. Courtney adjusts her blazer, expression composed, but I can tell she’s bracing—she always does that before stepping into a fight she intends to win.

Anna meets my gaze.

“No matter what happens,” she says quietly, “remember why you’re here.”

I nod. “Truth.”

“And choice,” she adds.

The elevator dings.

The doors slide open onto the executive floor, and the air changes instantly. Thicker. Charged. This is where decisions are made that ripple outward—into markets, into lives. Into injuries that leave athletes comatose. Into scandals engineered from behind polished desks.

The head secretary looks up from her station—and panics. It’s not subtle.

Her eyes widen, fingers freezing above the keyboard like she’s just seen a ghost step out of an elevator. Her gaze flicks from me to Damian to Peter, then lands on Anna and Courtney, confusion stacking on top of alarm.

“M-Marcus,” she stammers, already half-standing. “You—you’re not expected.”

“No,” I say evenly. “We’re not.”

She swallows hard. “Your father is—we know he's still hospitalized. The board is in session, but—”

“I know,” I cut in. “That’s why we’re here.”

Her hand slides toward the phone. Damian notices immediately.

“Don’t,” he says, not raising his voice. Somehow, that makes it worse.

The secretary hesitates, torn between protocol and the reality unfolding in front of her. I almost feel bad for her. Almost.

Courtney steps forward, calm and professional. “We’re here in an advisory capacity. Legal. Strategic. If you delay us, you may be personally obstructing material disclosure.”

The secretary pales. “I—I’ll notify the chair.”

“Please do,” Courtney says with a polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

As the secretary fumbles with the phone, I glance down the hall toward the boardroom doors. Heavy. Closed. Soundproofed. Behind them sits the legacy my father tried to control with iron fists and quiet threats.

Behind them sits the mess.

Bella’s message buzzes again.

Bella: In the building. Security tried to stop us. Didn’t work.

Peter chuckles under his breath. “Of course it didn’t.”

The boardroom doors swing open before the secretary can finish her call. Every head inside turns toward us.

Executives. Legal counsel. Board members who watched me grow up and never once asked what I wanted. I recognize the looks immediately—shock, irritation, calculation. A few flickers of guilt.

I step forward.

“Good morning,” I say. “Sorry we’re late.”

Someone stands. “Marcus, this is highly inappropriate—”

“I disagree,” I reply. “What’s inappropriate is continuing this meeting without full disclosure.”

Murmurs ripple around the table. Anna stays beside me, close but not hidden. Her presence is a quiet statement: I’m not alone. I didn’t arrive here by accident or manipulation. I chose this.

Damian moves to my left, Peter to my right. Courtney steps back slightly, positioning herself where she can see everyone.

“This company is under investigation,” Damian says calmly. “And from what we’ve uncovered, the board does not currently have all the facts.”

The chair scoffs. “And you do?”

“Yes,” Courtney says. “We do.”

She places a tablet on the table and taps the screen. Files bloom to life—timelines, communications, metadata that tells a story no PR spin can erase.

I watch faces shift as recognition sets in.

“This is confidential—” someone starts.

“It’s evidence,” Courtney corrects. “Of corporate sabotage.”

The room erupts. Voices overlap. Objections fly. I feel the pressure building, the instinct to shrink back tugging at me out of habit.

Then I think of the rink. Of my knee buckling. Of my father blaming Anna instead of listening to his sons.

I straighten.

“This company almost destroyed itself because people in power were more concerned with control than accountability,” I say. “That stops now.”

Silence falls—sharp and sudden.

“I’m not here to burn McKay Enterprises to the ground,” I continue. “I’m here to save it. But not the version built on fear.”

A board member leans back slowly. “And what exactly are you proposing, Marcus?”

I glance at Anna. She nods once.

“Transparency,” I say. “Cooperation with investigators. A full internal audit led by an independent firm.”

“And leadership?” someone asks pointedly.

I take a breath. This is the part that matters most.

“Leadership is earned,” I say. “Not inherited. Not enforced.”

The doors at the back of the room open.

Bella walks in with her sisters, shoulders squared, expression resolute. A collective gasp ripples through the room.

“I believe my father has some questions to answer,” she says clearly. “And I’m prepared to testify to what I overheard.”

I feel it shift.

The balance. Whatever fallout comes from this—will be built on truth, not silence.

I look at my brothers. At Anna. At Courtney. We’re still standing.

And this time, no one is panicking except the people who should be.