Chapter 10: The Story Aaron Told First
Aaron’s statement appeared before I reached the elevator.
A business reporter had posted it, then three more accounts repeated it before I could read to the bottom. Aaron regretted that a private marital matter had unsettled Prescott Global’s employees, the statement said. He remained focused on protecting the company—and the people who depended on it.
Below it sat two cropped screenshots.
One showed a message from Jasmine: You can’t keep asking me to fix this while you shut me out. The other showed a text I’d sent Aaron after he warned me to stay away from company affairs: I want to know what my grandfather’s investment has to do with your merger.
The messages were real. The story attached to them wasn’t. Jasmine looked like a resentful employee lashing out after losing influence; I looked like a wife reaching for control of a company through an inheritance I couldn’t yet prove gave me any authority at all.
Nathan read over my shoulder.
“He’s trying to make the evidence look like a custody fight over the company.”
“It’s not a custody fight,” I said.
“No. But it’s easier to sell than a ledger, an unexplained transfer, and a certificate with a date that predates the loan.”
My phone vibrated. Another notification. Then another. I set it face down.
Nathan’s office smelled of burnt coffee and printer toner. On the table, the photographs of my grandfather’s ledger sat beside the copy of Martin Wynn’s certificate, every page looking smaller than the story Aaron was telling about them.
“Lydia needs to know about the screenshots,” Nathan said. “And Jasmine should see them before she hears about them from someone else.”
I sent Lydia a brief message, careful not to argue the facts in writing. Nathan called Jasmine. She didn’t answer. By the time I left, Aaron’s version had outrun anything we could verify.
My mother called while I was driving.
“Your father’s making soup,” she said. “And I thought you might rather not be alone tonight.”
The offer pulled something loose in my chest. I turned toward my parents’ house.
Eleanor was already there.
She sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea between her hands, composed in her dark coat as if she’d come for an ordinary visit. The old maritime chart was still folded near the ledger on the table. My father stood beside the counter, his arms crossed; my mother remained close to the stove, not serving Eleanor, not asking her to stay.
Eleanor rose when I came in.
“Claire. I’m glad you’re here.”
My father didn’t move.
“Why did you come to our home?” I asked.
“To speak with your parents.” Eleanor’s eyes flicked toward the ledger, then returned to me. “You’ve made this difficult for everyone.”
“Then you should be able to explain why.”
“I’m asking them to help you see the harm this could do. There are employees who have nothing to do with your marriage, or your grandfather’s investments.”
My father gave a short, humorless laugh.
“You came here to ask us to pressure our daughter into withdrawing from questions she’s entitled to ask?”
“I came because this has become larger than Claire’s personal grievance.”
The word grievance landed between us. Eleanor said it gently, which somehow made it worse.
My mother turned off the burner. The soup stopped murmuring.
“Claire doesn’t have to perform innocence for people who are determined to misunderstand her,” she said. “And we won’t help you make her do it.”
Eleanor’s fingers tightened around the teacup.
“I’m not asking anyone to lie.”
“No,” my father said. “You’re asking us to get her to stop asking questions. We won’t.”
For a moment, Eleanor looked less polished. Not sorry—only tired, or angry that the room had stopped obeying the rules she expected.
“The company is more fragile than you know,” she said.
“Then the truth matters more, not less,” I replied.
She put down the cup. Its saucer clicked against the table.
“I hope you understand what you’re risking.”
“I do,” I said. “I’m still not withdrawing.”
Eleanor gathered her gloves and left without another word. My father watched from the doorway until her car pulled away. Then he shut the door and leaned his forehead against it for a beat, the strain in his shoulders finally visible.
My mother came to my side.
“You don’t have to answer every cruel thing with a performance,” she said. “You can just keep telling the truth.”
I looked at the ledger on the table. For years, it had been a piece of my grandfather I hadn’t known how to read. Now everyone seemed to want it to say something certain, something convenient. It didn’t. It recorded a loan and conditions; the rest still needed proof.
My phone rang. Nathan.
“I found out what happened to the register,” he said. “Wynn’s archive manager called me back.”
I stepped into the hall so my parents could have the kitchen to themselves.
“What register?”
“The archived Harborlight register—the one that could help establish the ownership chain. Wynn’s manager says Aaron’s people accessed the storage last week. The register isn’t where it was kept.”
“Does he know who took it?”
“He knows who came in under whose instruction. He doesn’t know what happened after they left.”
A cold pressure settled below my ribs. Without the register, the ledger could point toward a right without establishing who could exercise it. The vote was still set for morning, and Aaron had just given the board a reason to see every question I raised as personal.
“Can Lydia still put the evidence before them?” I asked.
“She can put forward what we have. But the successor issue is already uncertain, and now the record that might clarify it is missing.”
I stared through the hallway window at my parents’ dim porch light. Behind me, my mother set bowls on the table. The ordinary clink of ceramic felt almost defiant.
Nathan lowered his voice.
“I’m going to call Wynn directly. If he knows what happened to that register, we need to know tonight.”
We ended the call. I had just returned to the kitchen when my phone rang again.
Martin Wynn’s name filled the screen.
“Claire,” he said. His voice was so strained I barely recognized it. Something thudded in the background.
“What happened?”
“Aaron is here.”
I gripped the edge of the counter.
May you like
“Where?”
“At my house. He has the original repayment paper.” Wynn took a shallow, unsteady breath. “You need to come now.”
