A millionaire found two little girls in a storm drain and what he did next made America stop scrolling.

By Tuesday afternoon, the shares of Whitaker Global had dropped four percent as institutional investors panicked over Andrew’s public threat to the state governments. But the drop didn't last. By 3:00 p.m., a massive, grassroots movement of retail investors—led by the millions of people who had watched the press conference—began buying the stock in a display of solidarity that pushed the price to an all-time high.

Inside his private office at the hospital, Andrew sat with his legal team, his desk covered in court documents, financial audits, and state charters.

“The Governor of Indiana has just called, Andrew,” Claire Vance reported, her face pale as she hung up her phone. “He’s terrified. The state’s social media pages are currently flooded with hundreds of thousands of messages demanding an audit of the Lake County foster system. He’s offering a private settlement—if you withdraw the public threat, they will transfer the girls' jurisdiction to Illinois without a fight.”

“No,” Andrew said, not looking up from his tablet.

“Andrew,” Claire said, her voice dropping into a whisper. “The settlement would give you the girls. It’s what we wanted.”

“It’s what we wanted, Claire,” Andrew said, looking up, his pale blue eyes burning with an unshakeable, terrifying clarity. “But it doesn't save the other children. Damon’s team has just found six other kids currently placed with the Skinners. If we settle quietly, those children stay in that house. The system stays broken. I’m not settling.”

The door to the office slid open, and Marcus stepped inside, his face grave.

“Boss,” Marcus said. “Richard and Clara Skinner have just arrived at the hospital. They have a news crew from a local tabloid with them, and they are demanding to see Maya and Lily. They have their Indiana foster license in their hand, and they’ve called the police to report a custodial interference.”

Andrew stood up slowly, his movements deliberate as he straightened his tie. He didn't look like a man who was about to face a public relations disaster; he looked like a predator that had finally cornered his prey.

“Let them in, Marcus,” Andrew said, his voice a low vibration that made the glass windows of the office seem to hum. “But bring them to the conference room. Not the ICU.”

The confrontation in Conference Room B was silent, tense, and smelled of cheap perfume and desperate lies.

Richard and Clara Skinner sat at the table, their faces flushed, their clothes slightly disheveled. Richard was a thin, rat-like man with yellowed teeth, while Clara was a heavy-set woman who carried a large, faux-leather purse like a weapon. Behind them, a cameraman from a local sensationalist blog stood with his lens focused on the door.

Andrew walked into the room alone. He didn't offer his hand. He didn't sit down. He stood like a monolith of dark wool and absolute authority, his pale eyes fixing the couple to their chairs.

“Mr. Whitaker,” Richard Skinner began, his voice carrying a defensive, whiny edge. “We are the legal foster parents of those girls. The state of Indiana gave them to us. You had no right to take them, and you had no right to drag our names through the mud on national television. We want our girls back, and we want a public apology, or we’re going to sue you for fifty million dollars.”

Andrew took a step forward, his shadow falling over the table. He didn't look at the camera. He looked directly into Richard Skinner’s eyes.

“This is a digital ledger of your personal bank accounts for the last three years, Richard,” Andrew said, sliding a thin, black folder across the mahogany wood.

Richard’s face turned the color of ashes as he saw the bank logos on the first page.

“It shows that sixty percent of the state funding you received for Maya and Lily was spent at the Majestic Star Casino in Gary,” Andrew said, his voice dropping into a low, lethal register that made the cameraman’s hand tremble. “It shows that you haven't bought a single piece of children's clothing since 2024. And it shows that three weeks ago, you received a transfer of ten thousand dollars from a private clinic in Indianapolis that has been under investigation for unregulated medical placements.”

Clara Skinner let out a sharp, helpless gasp, her hand flying to her purse.

“You didn't want to protect them, Clara,” Andrew said, his voice turning colder than the storm drain. “You wanted to sell them. You were going to split them up and sell Lily’s care to a private clinic for a kickback.”

“That’s a lie!” Richard screamed, his face turning a deep, angry red as he stood up. “You can’t prove that!”

“The federal grand jury in Indianapolis has just signed the subpoenas for your phone records, Richard,” Andrew said, his voice a quiet, terrifying absolute. “The FBI is currently entering your home in Lake County. You have exactly thirty minutes before the local deputies arrive at this hospital to arrest you for child trafficking and wire fraud. Get out of my sight.”

Richard Skinner sank back into his chair, his jaw trembling, his eyes filled with a desperate, aristocratic madness as he realized that his entire life had just been dismantled in a single, three-minute conversation.

As Marcus’s men led the whimpering couple out of the room, the cameraman lowered his lens, his face pale and awed.

“Did you get all of that?” Andrew asked him.