The storm broke at dawn on a Tuesday.

Federal agents in windbreakers went through the doors of Whitby Capital while the city was still gray, and the news trucks were there before the coffee shops opened.

The rolling footage ran all day: executives I had worked beside for a decade walked out of the glass lobby with their jackets over their wrists, the company’s name scrolling under the anchors in the tone reserved for the fall of something large.

It should have gutted me.

My grandfather’s empire, the marble floors I’d walked my whole life, coming apart on live television.

And it did hurt.