But the shape of it matters.

Three days before I came home, my executive assistant, Sarah, had flagged something wrong.

A junior analyst in our finance department, a young man named Greg, had been approached with a request that had nothing to do with his job and everything to do with my private affairs.

He had been offered a substantial sum, fifteen thousand dollars, to quietly make copies of confidential internal material, the kind of documents that lay out who owns what and who inherits what and who holds authority over what.

It was the private architecture of my family’s holdings, and someone was willing to pay handsomely to get a look inside it.