Chapter 6 - The Call From My Grandfather’s Company
Caroline agreed to meet me at a bakery halfway between Boston and Marblehead.
Unlike Aaron, she arrived early.
Unlike Eleanor, she came without a lawyer.
She looked exhausted.
“Thank you for coming.”
“You said North Star existed before Jasmine met Aaron.”
“It did.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Peter Cole pitched Dad four years ago.”
Aaron and Caroline's father, William Prescott, had stepped back from formal management after heart surgery.
“What did he pitch?”
“Government logistics consulting.”
“Was he hired?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Dad didn't trust him.”
That was useful history.
Not evidence.
“What does that have to do with Aaron?”
Caroline stirred her coffee.
“Two years later, Peter approached Aaron directly.”
“And Aaron hired him.”
“Yes.”
“Did you object?”
“I didn't know until last year.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
She looked genuinely ashamed.
“Tell you what? That your husband hired his girlfriend’s uncle?”
“So you knew about Jasmine.”
Caroline closed her eyes.
“I suspected.”
Everyone suspected.
Everyone except the wife arranging Christmas dinners and ironing shirts.
“How many people knew?”
“I don't know.”
“Your mother?”
“Yes.”
The answer hurt despite already knowing.
“Your father?”
“I don't think so.”
“Board?”
“Some probably did.”
I stared at Caroline.
“You all watched me walk into dinners beside him.”
“I know.”
“You hugged me.”
“I know.”
“You let me sit beside Jasmine.”
“Claire.”
“You knew.”
“I was afraid of losing my brother.”
“And I wasn't family enough to protect.”
She had no answer.
The bakery suddenly felt too warm.
Caroline wiped tears from her eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
I believed her.
That didn't repair anything.
“What aren't you telling me?”
She looked down.
“Peter Cole wasn't just selling consulting.”
“What else?”
“He wanted investors.”
“For?”
“A private logistics platform.”
“Meridian?”
“No. A competing company.”
I frowned.
“North Star had financial interests in a Meridian competitor?”
“I think so.”
“If that's true, why would Aaron hire them to advise on acquiring Meridian?”
“Exactly.”
There was the problem.
A potential conflict of interest.
Still not proof of wrongdoing.
But enough to investigate.
“Does Rebecca know?”
“I sent her what I have.”
Good.
“You did the right thing.”
Caroline laughed bitterly.
“Three years late.”
We sat quietly.
Then she asked, “Are you really done with Aaron?”
“Yes.”
“No possibility?”
“No.”
She nodded as though grieving something herself.
“He's falling apart.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You mean that?”
“Yes.”
Aaron wasn't a cartoon villain.
He was a person I once loved.
Watching him destroy his marriage and perhaps damage his career didn't bring joy.
It brought sadness.
But sadness didn't require rescue.
That was a lesson I had learned late.
The next several days became a strange combination of personal heartbreak and corporate procedure.
Westbridge froze additional purchases of Prescott shares while the special committee investigated.
Prescott Global's stock stabilized.
I continued divorce disclosures.
Aaron stopped calling.
That worried me more than constant calls had.
Then came a letter from his attorneys.
He disputed the valuation of several jointly held assets.
Normal.
He requested mediation.
Also normal.
Then came a more unusual request.
He wanted temporary access to the Marblehead house.
Nathan read it twice.
“Why?”
“He says certain personal items may have been moved there during marriage.”
“Were they?”
“No.”
“Then reject.”
We did.
That evening, my father called.
“Claire.”
Something about his voice made me sit down.
“What?”
“A man came to the house.”
“What man?”
“Said he was working for an insurance company.”
“About?”
“You.”
My skin chilled.
“What did he ask?”
“Questions about your grandfather. Trusts. Property.”
“Did you answer?”
“Of course not.”
I called Nathan.
His reaction was immediate.
“Private investigator.”
“Aaron?”
“Could be his attorneys.”
“Is that legal?”
“Generally, yes, within limits.”
“What are they looking for?”
“Assets.”
Of course.
Despite disclosure, they didn't trust me.
Or perhaps they assumed there must be more.
Nathan sounded amused.
“They're going to spend a lot of money confirming you told the truth.”
“I don't like strangers approaching my parents.”
“Neither do I.”
He sent a formal notice to Aaron’s attorneys demanding all communications go through counsel.
Two days later, the investigator disappeared.
Then Westbridge called.
Marcus.
“Can you come in?”
“When?”
“Now.”
I drove to Boston.
The atmosphere was different.
Serious.
Richard was there.
So was outside counsel.
I sat.
“What happened?”
Marcus slid a report toward me.
“Prescott's special committee contacted major shareholders this morning.”
“And?”
“They're placing Aaron on temporary administrative leave.”
My stomach dropped.
“Why?”
“Pending review of vendor relationships.”
“No conclusion?”
“None.”
“Then why leave?”
“Board judgment.”
I stared at the report.
Aaron Prescott.
Temporarily removed from the company whose identity had become inseparable from his own.
“How long?”
“Unknown.”
“Who runs operations?”
“Samuel Price.”
I pushed the document away.
Richard studied me.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
I wasn't.
I stepped outside and called Aaron.
For once, he answered immediately.
“What?”
His voice sounded empty.
“I heard.”
“Congratulations.”
“Don't.”
“You got what you wanted.”
“No.”
“Westbridge pushed the board.”
“Westbridge didn't request your leave.”
“How would you know?”
“Because I was recused.”
He laughed without humor.
“How convenient.”
“Aaron.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry.”
Silence.
Then:
“Don't pity me.”
“I don't.”
“You hated me enough to humiliate me publicly.”
“Yes.”
“But now you feel sorry?”
“I can be angry about what you did to me and still not enjoy watching your life collapse.”
He breathed slowly.
“You always did that.”
“What?”
“Made me feel worse by being reasonable.”
I almost smiled sadly.
“That wasn't my intention.”
“Claire.”
“Yes?”
“Did Jasmine tell you about North Star before she went to Rebecca?”
“Yes.”
“So you knew.”
“I knew there were concerns.”
“And you did nothing.”
“Correct.”
“Why?”
“Because it wasn't my evidence.”
Long silence.
Then Aaron said something unexpected.
“Thank you.”
I closed my eyes.
“Don't thank me.”
“I assumed you would use it.”
“I don't want revenge.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No. I wanted you to feel what I felt.”
He was silent.
“That was the Slack message.”
“And now?”
“Now I want out.”
After the call, I sat in my car for nearly ten minutes.
I realized something uncomfortable.
The public humiliation had been revenge.
Brief.
Sharp.
Deliberate.
I didn't regret ending the lie publicly because Aaron had intertwined our marriage with his workplace.
But I could admit the truth.
Part of me wanted everyone to know.
Part of me wanted him embarrassed.
That was human.
But if I stayed trapped inside that moment, I would become defined by what he had done.
I didn't want that.
I drove home.
At seven, Nathan arrived unexpectedly.
He carried a folder.
“What is this?”
“Something your investigator friends missed.”
“My investigator friends?”
“Aaron's.”
He sat at the dining table.
“Remember when you said the Westbridge stake is your largest separate asset?”
“Yes.”
“It isn't.”
I frowned.
“Yes, it is.”
Nathan opened the folder.
“Not anymore.”
Inside was a letter from Westbridge's trustees.
My grandfather’s trust contained a provision I had forgotten.
When I turned thirty-five—or upon my uncle permanently leaving the committee, whichever occurred later—additional non-voting shares would transfer into my branch of the family trust.
My thirty-fifth birthday was six months away.
My uncle had just resigned.
The transfer had been triggered.
I stared at Nathan.
“How much?”
“Another four-point-six percent.”
I felt dizzy.
“That can't be right.”
“It is.”
“Value?”
He gave me a number.
I stared.
“Claire,” Nathan said gently, “after the transfer, your beneficial Westbridge holdings are worth somewhere north of four hundred million dollars.”
I didn't speak.
Money at that scale didn't feel real.
It felt like an abstraction.
But Nathan wasn't finished.
“There’s one more complication.”
“What?”
“Your increased stake gives you nomination rights.”
“For what?”
“One seat on Westbridge's governing board.”
“I don't want it.”
“You may need to decide quickly.”
“Why?”
“Because tomorrow morning, Westbridge is announcing a major strategic transaction.”
“What transaction?”
Nathan slid his phone toward me.
The draft announcement was confidential.
I read the first paragraph.
Then reread it.
Westbridge Capital and several institutional partners were forming a shareholder coalition around Prescott Global.
Combined ownership:
Eighteen point four percent.
Not control.
But enough to reshape board elections.
And one of the names proposed for the shareholder governance committee was mine.
Aaron believed our divorce was about to remove me from his world.
May you like
Instead, my grandfather's legacy had just placed me closer to the future of Prescott Global than I had ever wanted to be.
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