MARCUS. JRI could have handed the documents to legal and walked away. Everything was there, the forged signature, the ownership trail, the transaction margin. Packaged, airtight, and ready. The legal would take it, the board would convene, the PR team would draft something carefully, and the machinery would grind on.Instead, I called Nadia at seven in the morning and said, “Come to the foundation. I want to show you something.”Silence stretched on the line. Then, a cautious, “Why?”“Because you’ve spent a week building a picture of this place without ever really seeing it. I want to change that.”“The documents don’t change no matter what I see.”“I know,” I said. “Come anyway.”She arrived at eight fifteen. No recorder or notepad in her hand yet. Just her bag slung over one shoulder and that careful, watchful look I was starting to recognize as her armor, taking everything in before she decided what it meant.The building was already alive. The staff unlocking rooms, the kitchen
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