Preston Kessler didn't look like a man who was about to save or ruin his family's fortune. He looked, if anything, like a man who hadn't slept well in a long time — good suit, tired eyes, the kind of careful posture Marcus recognized from years of dinners where he'd had to hold himself together in a room that wanted him small.They met above the laundromat, which Naomi had insisted on. "Neutral ground," she'd said. "Somewhere his father's never going to think to look, and somewhere he's going to realize pretty fast that you're not what he expected either."Teddy had cleared the space, left three chairs around the long table, and made himself scarce with a cup of coffee and a nod that told Marcus he'd be listening from the next room whether anyone officially asked him to or not.Preston sat down carefully, glancing around the office — the mismatched furniture, the laptops, nothing that looked like it belonged to a man Sinclair Group's own legal team had spent three weeks trying to iden