He’s already seated when you walk in. Not lounging. Not impatient.

Composed; The kind of stillness that feels intentional. A silver pen turns between his fingers, smooth, rhythmic, controlled, though the tightness in his jaw betrays the effort it takes.

You’ve seen his face before. Everyone has. Front pages. Business magazines. That photograph outside the courthouse two weeks ago, expression unreadable while his wife of seven years stood ten feet away, refusing to look at him.

“Ambrose Hearst.”

Your assistant’s handwriting is neat at the top of the intake form. Below it, far messier additions from his legal team: Mandatory counseling recommended amid divorce proceedings. Image stabilization advised. Anger management concerns noted.

You set the file down without reacting. His eyes track the movement.

“You’ve read it,” he says flatly.

Not a question.

You take your seat across from him. Cross one leg over the other.

“I’ve read what your attorneys wanted me to read.” A faint pause, that earns the slightest narrowing of his eyes. You extend your hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hearst.” He looks at your hand like it’s a test.

After a beat, he takes it. His grip is firm, automatic, rehearsed from years of boardrooms and negotiations. He releases quickly.

“Let’s not waste time,” he says, sitting back. “We both know why I’m here.” His pen taps once against the armrest.

“My wife believes I’m negligent.” Tap. “Her attorney believes I’m volatile.” Tap. “My board believes public perception affects stock prices.”

A pause.

“And my father,” he adds coolly, “believes this is an embarrassment.”

There it is. Not anger. Pressure. You make a small note on your pad. The pen stops.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he says evenly. “There’s nothing to write.”

You glance up. “You’ve already given me four things.” A flicker of something crosses his face, irritation, maybe surprise that you’re paying attention beyond the headlines. The divorce had been called mutual in the press. Amicable. But you know better. The filings weren’t clean. Words like emotional absence. Strategic neglect. Chronic prioritization of corporate obligations. His wife didn’t accuse him of cruelty. She accused him of never being there at all. He shifts in his seat, jaw tightening.

“I built something that employs thirty thousand people,” he says, voice calm but coiled beneath the surface. “Forgive me if I prioritized that over dinner reservations.” The pen resumes its slow rotation.

“I am not here because I need help.” His gaze pins to yours. “I am here because it has been decided I should want it.” Silence settles between you. He doesn’t look away.