Chapter 13 - The Night His Family Turned on Him
The drive to Boston took forty-three minutes.
I remember every one.
Not because I wanted Aaron back.
Because fear doesn't check divorce certificates before entering your body.
I called Eleanor.
No answer.
Caroline.
No answer.
William.
Voicemail.
So I kept driving.
At the hospital, a nurse recognized my name.
“Mr. Prescott is stable.”
My knees weakened.
“Stable?”
“Yes. Concussion. Broken wrist. Several bruised ribs.”
“No surgery?”
“Not currently.”
I exhaled for what felt like the first time since the call.
“Was anyone else hurt?”
“No.”
Good.
That mattered.
“Can I see him?”
She hesitated.
“Your relationship?”
“Former spouse.”
“I'll check.”
While waiting, Caroline arrived.
She ran toward me.
“You came.”
“Of course.”
She hugged me.
“Mom's parking.”
“What happened?”
“He swerved to avoid a truck that changed lanes.”
“Was he drinking?”
“No.”
“Thank God.”
Eleanor arrived next.
She saw me and froze.
Then hugged me too.
Months earlier, that would have felt impossible.
Eventually, the nurse allowed family inside.
I stayed behind.
Caroline looked back.
“You're coming?”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“He has you.”
“But he might want—”
“This isn't about what he wants.”
The words sounded harsher than I intended.
I softened them.
“He needs his family.”
“You are family.”
“No.”
I smiled.
“Not anymore.”
That truth was not cruel.
It was simply real.
I sat in the waiting room.
Twenty minutes later, Eleanor returned.
“He asked if you were here.”
My chest tightened.
“What did you say?”
“Yes.”
“He wants to see you.”
I closed my eyes.
Five minutes.
That became my rule for Aaron.
Apparently forever.
He looked terrible.
Purple bruising.
Bandage near his temple.
Wrist immobilized.
But awake.
When I entered, he smiled weakly.
“You came.”
“Don't make this romantic.”
He laughed, then winced.
“Ribs.”
“I heard.”
“You look angry.”
“You scared everyone.”
“Sorry.”
I sat.
“Do you remember what happened?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He watched me.
“Claire.”
“What?”
“I changed my emergency contact months ago.”
I frowned.
“Then why did they call me?”
“Old hospital record.”
Of course.
He smiled.
“The universe has questionable boundaries.”
“Apparently.”
We sat quietly.
Then he said, “Thank you.”
“You don't owe me thanks.”
“I think I do.”
“For driving?”
“For not hating me.”
I looked at him.
“I did hate you for about forty-eight hours.”
“Only forty-eight?”
“Maybe seventy-two.”
“Generous.”
He became serious.
“I hated myself much longer.”
“That isn't healthy either.”
“I know.”
Therapy again.
Good.
Before leaving, I touched his uninjured hand.
“Get better.”
“You too.”
I smiled.
“I already am.”
Outside, Eleanor asked me to stay for coffee.
We went to the cafeteria.
William joined us.
He looked older than I remembered.
“Claire.”
“William.”
“Thank you for coming.”
“Of course.”
He stirred coffee.
Then said, “Aaron told me something recently.”
“What?”
“That I taught him success mattered more than character.”
Eleanor became still.
William looked miserable.
“I told him that was nonsense.”
I waited.
“Then I thought about it.”
He sighed.
“Maybe it wasn't.”
No one spoke.
Families love assigning one villain.
Life rarely cooperates.
Aaron made his choices.
But he learned priorities somewhere.
William continued.
“I praised him when Prescott grew.”
“I barely asked if he was happy.”
“When he made mistakes, we fixed headlines.”
“We didn't fix him.”
Eleanor stared at the table.
“This isn't your fault alone.”
“I know.”
“But it matters.”
The Prescott family was changing.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Not because I exposed them.
Because consequences forced conversations they had postponed for years.
Aaron left the hospital two days later.
I did not visit him at home.
Boundaries.
The internet eventually learned about the accident.
Rumors claimed he had been drunk.
False.
Prescott released police information confirming no impairment.
For once, the story died quickly.
Weeks passed.
Then another, quieter crisis emerged.
William wanted to sell his Prescott shares.
Aaron didn't.
Caroline was undecided.
The family trust required majority agreement for certain transfers.
Their disagreements became severe.
Eleanor called me.
I refused involvement.
“This is family business.”
“You know more about shareholder governance—”
“Hire counsel.”
“We have.”
“Then listen to them.”
A year earlier, I would have solved it.
Scheduled the meeting.
Prepared notes.
Moderated emotions.
Not anymore.
Sometimes growth looked like refusing to be useful.
Their conflict worsened.
Eventually, they restructured the trust.
William sold part of his stake.
Aaron and Caroline retained theirs.
No catastrophe.
No need for Claire to save the day.
That realization felt liberating.
Around the same time, I bought a new home.
Not because I disliked Marblehead.
I loved it.
But my father had given it to me.
I wanted one property chosen entirely by adult me.
A townhouse near Boston.
Brick exterior.
Small courtyard.
Study with enormous windows.
The first night, I slept on a mattress because furniture hadn't arrived.
I ate Chinese takeout on the floor.
Then I started laughing.
On the first night in the house Aaron and I shared, we had eaten pizza on the kitchen floor.
For a moment, sadness came.
Then passed.
Memories don't disappear.
They stop controlling what comes next.
I raised my plastic takeout container.
“To beginnings.”
No one heard.
That was fine.
Three weeks later, Nathan invited me to dinner.
I assumed he wanted to celebrate finally closing every lingering financial filing.
He chose a small Italian restaurant.
After dessert, he became strangely nervous.
“Nathan.”
“Yes?”
“Why are you acting weird?”
“I’m not.”
“You're tapping your fork.”
He stopped.
“Claire.”
Oh.
I knew.
Not exactly what.
But enough.
“We've known each other a long time,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I waited because you were married.”
My stomach tightened.
“And then divorced.”
“Nathan.”
“I'm not asking for anything serious.”
I looked at him.
“I’m asking whether you'd have dinner with me when I'm not billing you.”
I laughed.
“This dinner?”
“This is transitional dinner.”
“That's not a thing.”
“It could be.”
I liked Nathan.
Trusted him.
He was attractive.
Kind.
Safe.
That was exactly why I became afraid.
“I don't know.”
“That's allowed.”
“You deserve a better answer.”
“No. I deserve an honest one.”
There it was.
No pressure.
No persuasion.
“I’m not ready.”
He smiled.
“Then we're having dinner as friends.”
Relief and disappointment mixed strangely.
“Thank you.”
“Ask me in six months.”
“You're very confident.”
“I'm a lawyer.”
I laughed.
But six months later, something happened that neither Nathan nor I expected.
Jasmine returned to Boston.
May you like
And she came carrying information about a secret account that could reopen everything Prescott Global thought it had already resolved.
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