Chapter 4 - A Family That Never Asked Permission
Nathaniel waited six days before telling his parents.
Clare wanted longer.
Nathaniel wanted never.
Reality gave them neither option.
At eleven weeks, Clare had already postponed two work trips because nausea struck without warning.
Nathaniel had quietly changed his schedule to stay closer to New York.
His assistant noticed.
Security noticed.
Eventually, Ashcroft people would notice.
Secrets did not survive long in his family.
So on a cold Sunday afternoon, Nathaniel drove to the Ashcroft estate in Westchester alone.
The mansion sat behind stone walls and iron gates on land his grandfather purchased in 1968.
Nathaniel had grown up there.
He hated almost every room.
Douglas was in the library.
Eleanor sat near the fire drinking tea.
Neither looked surprised to see him.
His father closed a newspaper.
“So you remembered the road.”
Nathaniel remained standing.
“Clare is pregnant.”
Nothing moved.
The clock on the mantel became suddenly loud.
Eleanor set her cup down.
Douglas stared.
“How far?”
“Eleven weeks.”
His father’s face changed.
Not emotionally.
Mathematically.
Nathaniel knew that look.
He had inherited it.
Douglas was calculating trusts, voting rights, inheritance structures, Bowmont negotiations, public perception.
Nathaniel hated him for it.
Eleanor spoke first.
“Is she certain?”
Nathaniel’s stare sharpened.
“Yes, Mother. She understands how pregnancy tests work.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“I know exactly what you meant.”
Douglas stood.
“You’ll arrange a paternity test.”
Nathaniel crossed the room before he realized he had moved.
He stopped inches from his father.
“Say that again.”
Douglas held his ground.
“You have known this woman a few months.”
“That child is mine.”
“You cannot know—”
“Enough.”
Nathaniel’s voice was quiet.
That was when Douglas knew he had gone too far.
Eleanor rose.
“Nathaniel.”
He turned toward her.
“You wanted to know whether there was someone. There is. You wanted to know whether this was serious. It is.”
He looked at both parents.
“And now there is a child.”
Douglas recovered.
“This complicates things.”
“No. It simplifies them.”
Nathaniel’s expression became cold.
“I will marry Clare if and when Clare wants to marry me. Victoria is finished. The Bowmont arrangement is finished. Anyone who contacts Clare without her permission answers to me.”
Douglas gave a bitter laugh.
“You sound like your grandfather.”
“That should frighten you.”
It did.
Nathaniel left ten minutes later.
Behind him, Eleanor closed the library doors.
Douglas turned toward her.
“He’s irrational.”
“No,” Eleanor said.
“He’s in love.”
“That’s worse.”
Eleanor said nothing.
Douglas poured a drink.
“The Bowmont merger depends on a family union.”
“Then perhaps the merger is finished.”
Douglas stared at his wife.
“You don’t believe that.”
Eleanor looked toward the door where Nathaniel had disappeared.
“I believe Nathaniel does.”
Douglas’s expression hardened.
“We built everything for him.”
“No.”
Eleanor’s voice was nearly inaudible.
“Your father built it for himself. You maintained it for yourself. We simply taught Nathaniel to call the cage an inheritance.”
Douglas looked at her sharply.
“Whose side are you on?”
Eleanor did not answer.
That evening Harrison Bowmont received a call.
Thirty minutes later, Victoria learned Clare was pregnant.
Her wineglass slipped from her fingers.
It shattered across the kitchen floor.
Harrison watched his daughter.
“This can still be handled.”
Victoria looked at him.
“How?”
“The child complicates succession, not marriage.”
“Nathaniel loves her.”
“Love is temporary.”
Victoria laughed.
There was no humor in it.
“You don’t know him.”
“I have known him since he was a boy.”
“No, Father. You’ve negotiated with him since he was a boy.”
Harrison walked closer.
“Do you want him?”
Victoria looked toward the broken glass.
“Yes.”
“Then stop behaving like someone has already beaten you.”
The next morning Clare received flowers at work.
White roses.
No card.
Nathaniel had not sent them.
She knew because Nathaniel disliked anonymous gestures.
At lunch another delivery arrived.
A box containing a single silver baby rattle.
Antique.
Expensive.
Again, no card.
Clare called Nathaniel.
He arrived twenty-three minutes later.
He examined the box without touching it.
“Did anyone else handle this?”
“The receptionist.”
Nathaniel called his security chief.
The office quietly emptied.
The rattle was examined.
No device.
No poison.
Nothing dangerous.
That almost made it worse.
Clare stood beside her desk.
“What does it mean?”
Nathaniel’s face was unreadable.
“It means someone wants you to know they know.”
“Your parents?”
“Maybe.”
“Victoria?”
“Maybe.”
“Anyone else?”
Nathaniel looked at her.
“Yes.”
Clare swallowed.
“How many enemies does your family have?”
Nathaniel did not answer.
Because the truthful number was not useful.
That evening he moved Clare out of her apartment.
She resisted.
“I’m not disappearing because somebody sent flowers.”
“Someone also sent something for our unborn child.”
“Our child is currently the size of a lime.”
“Clare.”
“I have work.”
“You can work from somewhere secure.”
“I have a life.”
“And I’m trying to keep you in it.”
Silence.
The fear beneath his anger stopped her.
Clare softened.
“Where?”
“My apartment.”
“Your terrifying glass penthouse?”
“Yes.”
“It has no personality.”
“You can insult the furniture after we get there.”
“I fully intend to.”
Nathaniel smiled briefly.
Within two hours Clare’s laptop, clothing, and battered notebook were in Central Park West.
The first night she stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows.
“This is ridiculous.”
Nathaniel came behind her.
“What?”
“The view.”
“You get used to it.”
“That may be the most rich-person sentence you’ve ever said.”
He wrapped his arms around her from behind.
Clare leaned against him.
“Do you think they’ll stop?”
“No.”
She appreciated that he did not lie.
“What do we do?”
Nathaniel rested his chin lightly against her hair.
“We stop reacting.”
“And?”
“We start finding out who is doing it.”
He had already begun.
Within forty-eight hours, Nathaniel discovered that the surveillance vehicle outside Clare’s office had been assigned through a shell vendor.
The authorization did not come from Douglas.
It came through an internal Ashcroft security account that had not been used in six years.
The account belonged to a dead man.
Nathaniel stared at the screen.
His security chief, Marcus Vale, stood beside him.
“That’s impossible,” Marcus said.
“No.”
Nathaniel leaned closer.
“It’s deliberate.”
Someone wanted the trail to look old.
Someone with access.
Someone who understood Ashcroft systems.
“Who could reactivate it?” Nathaniel asked.
Marcus hesitated.
“Five people.”
“Names.”
Marcus listed them.
Douglas Ashcroft.
Eleanor Ashcroft.
Nathaniel himself.
The chief legal officer.
And the director of family security.
Nathaniel looked at the final name.
Richard Crane.
His mother’s younger brother.
Clare would later remember that name.
Because Richard Crane would be standing near the staircase the night she was pushed.
May you like
And he would be one of the first people Nathaniel noticed refusing to meet his eyes.
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