Chapter 68 Chapter 68
At that moment, Mr. Bushman straightened.
Whatever fragility had overtaken him earlier the collapse, the shaking, the pale, unsteady version of himself that had been on display for the entire crowd—seemed to recede.
Not completely, but enough.
Enough for him to find his footing again, enough for the older, more cunning part of him to resurface.
Because Mr. Bushman had not built what he had built by being soft. He had not navigated the world of business contracts and back-room dealings and careful alliances by being the kind of man who stayed down when he was knocked over.
He was simply a man who needed a moment to recalibrate.
And his moment had come.
“Absolutely right,” he said, his voice regaining its firmness with every syllable.
He looked at Vincent, Then at Deborah.
Then at Jessica.
“I agree with all of this completely,” he continued.
“And I will tell you something else—we need to move. Quickly. Right now. Before we receive the biggest shock of our lives.”
He began to pace slightly, his mind visibly accelerating, assembling pieces into a plan the way he always did when the pressure became high enough.
“Think about what is coming if we don't act,” he said, his voice dropping to something urgent and conspiratorial.
“Just think about it. Think about what people are already going to start saying. Think about what happens when this story spreads—because it will spread.”
He shook his head.
“And when it does, everything we have worked for, every connection we have, every door that is still open to us right now will begin to close. One by one.”
He stopped pacing and looked at his family directly.
“Unless we move first.”
Vincent watched his father carefully.
So did Deborah, so did Jessica.
There was something in Mr. Bushman's eyes now that had not been there before a sharpness, a focus, a quiet ruthlessness that his children recognized from the rare occasions when he had been pushed far enough to stop being polite about things.
“She is blackmailing them,” Mr. Bushman said, his voice dropping even further. “I am certain of it now. General Zachariah. Mr. Oliver. Liam. All of them.”
He pointed a finger slightly for emphasis.
“A man like General Zachariah does not go on his knees in public for any woman unless that woman has something on him. Something serious. Something that could destroy him if it came out.”
He nodded slowly, confirming his own theory as he spoke it aloud.
“She went to prison. And wherever she went, whatever she did while she was there, she came back with information. With leverage. With material that these powerful men cannot afford to have exposed.”
He looked at Vincent.
“That is her weapon. That is why they are all bowing to her. That is why they are all afraid of her.”
He paused.
“And that is exactly what we are going to use against her.”
The silence that followed was not empty.
It was full—full of the unspoken agreement of a family that had been publicly dismantled and was now quietly, collectively, dangerously rebuilding itself around a single objective.
“Our job right now,” Mr. Bushman continued, his voice taking on a new kind of authority, “is to find out exactly what she has on them. What she is holding over their heads. What she knows.”
He looked around at his family.
“And once we know that—once we have it in our hands we go to General Zachariah. We go to Mr. Oliver. We offer to help them. We offer to make it go away.”
Then he smiled slightly.
The smile of a man who had found his angle.
“And in exchange, they will give us more than any contract we have been fighting for. They will be grateful. They will owe us. And men like that—when they owe you something—they pay very, very well.”
Deborah's eyes lit up with something sharp and hungry.
Jessica uncrossed her arms, standing straighter, nodding with increasing urgency.
Even Vincent, who had been burning with a different kind of fury, felt the logic of his father's words begin to reshape his thinking.
This was not just revenge, this was strategy, this was a way out.
And more than that it was potentially a way up.
“We just need to be smart,” Mr. Bushman said firmly. “Smart and fast. And I know people. The right people.”
He said those last two words with quiet, deliberate confidence.
“People who can do this kind of job cleanly. Quietly. Without anything being traced back to us. Without us having to lift a single visible finger.”
He looked at his son, at his wife, at his daughter.
And then he nodded once, sealing the decision the way only a patriarch can not with a vote, not with a discussion, but with the simple, final weight of someone who has made up his mind.
“Just leave this to me,” he said. “All of it.”
His voice was steady now, Completely steady.
“I am going to handle this personally. I am going to make sure that Megan deeply regrets ever crossing this family.”
Immediately he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket.
And pulled out his phone.