Chapter 11 - A Vote Without Her

Mercer Vale’s investment committee met without me.

That was the point of recusal, but knowing it did not make the waiting easier.

Nora called at six that evening.

“You are still recused.”

“I know.”

“So I cannot tell you the substance of the vote.”

“I know.”

“You are going to ask anyway.”

“Absolutely.”

“No.”

I paced across my parents’ kitchen.

“Can you at least tell me whether Prescott is in default?”

“No.”

“Nora.”

“Claire.”

I stopped.

“Fine.”

“Good. Now ask me something I can answer.”

“Did anyone mention my divorce?”

“Yes.”

My stomach tightened.

“And?”

“I reminded them that marital litigation is not a credit metric unless it affects governance, ownership, or cash flow.”

“Did it?”

“I cannot answer that.”

“You enjoy this.”

“A little.”

After we hung up, I found my father reading at the table.

“She won’t tell me anything.”

“She shouldn’t.”

“I know.”

“You sound disappointed that your governance works.”

“I’m discovering principles are most annoying when they apply to me.”

He folded his newspaper.

“That is why they are principles.”

My phone rang.

Aaron.

I almost let it go.

Then I answered.

“Hello.”

“Did Mercer Vale just vote on us?”

I closed my eyes.

“I’m recused.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“It is the only answer I have.”

“Claire, our CFO was told the investment committee met today.”

“I am not on the meeting.”

“Your aunt chairs it.”

“She is not my messenger.”

He exhaled.

“You expect me to believe you know nothing?”

“Yes.”

“That is impossible.”

My voice cooled.

“Why?”

“Because it’s your family company.”

“And Prescott is yours. Did your mother know you kissed Jasmine before you told the board?”

Silence.

“That’s different.”

“No. It is the same assumption. Family does not equal access.”

“I’m trying to protect four thousand employees.”

“And I am trying to protect the integrity of a process you already accused me of manipulating.”

“I didn’t accuse you.”

“You panicked in writing.”

He went quiet.

Then he said, “I’m sorry.”

I leaned against the counter.

“What?”

“I’m sorry I assumed you would use Mercer Vale against me.”

I said nothing.

“I was scared.”

“You keep using that word as if fear makes you a different person.”

“No.”

His voice softened.

“I’m starting to understand it reveals the person.”

That surprised me.

“Did Nathan teach you that?”

“My therapist.”

I blinked.

“You have a therapist?”

“Since last week.”

“Your mother must be devastated.”

He laughed.

A real laugh.

It hurt.

“I haven’t told her.”

“She’ll discover it in due diligence.”

His laughter faded.

“Claire.”

“Yes?”

“I miss you.”

I looked at my father.

He had politely returned to his newspaper.

“I know.”

“That’s it?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“That you miss me too.”

I did.

That was the problem.

“I miss who we were before I learned how alone I was.”

He was silent.

“That is not the same thing.”

“No.”

Later that night, Nathan called.

“Prescott’s counsel sent something.”

“What?”

“A proposed stipulation.”

“English.”

“They want both sides to agree that neither spouse will communicate with Mercer Vale about Prescott’s credit until the divorce is final.”

“That is absurd. Aaron has to communicate with lenders if he returns as CEO.”

“Exactly.”

“So his lawyers drafted something that would interfere with his job?”

“Fear makes mediocre lawyers creative.”

“Can we reject it?”

“We can improve it. You agree not to influence Mercer Vale. He agrees not to use marital discovery to influence lender negotiations.”

“That sounds reasonable.”

“It is. I dislike it on principle.”

I smiled.

“Send it.”

The next morning, a courier delivered a letter from Mercer Vale’s outside counsel.

It was addressed to me personally.

Nathan had a copy.

The letter confirmed three facts.

I had not participated in the committee meeting.

I had not communicated with any committee member about Prescott’s credit.

I had no unilateral authority over the facility.

I read it twice.

Then forwarded it to Aaron.

He called immediately.

“You didn’t have to send that.”

“Yes, I did.”

“I believe you.”

“You didn’t yesterday.”

“I was wrong yesterday.”

The words came quickly.

No defense.

No qualification.

Just wrong.

I sat down.

“What did the committee decide?”

“I thought you didn’t know.”

“I don’t.”

He hesitated.

“They approved a routine amendment.”

“Good?”

“For the company, yes.”

“So no disaster.”

“No.”

I exhaled.

He continued.

“Claire, the amendment would have passed whether I was CEO or not.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means the lender does not need me.”

“That seems normal.”

“It wasn’t normal to me.”

I understood.

Aaron had built his identity around being necessary.

Prescott needed him.

The board needed him.

Jasmine needed him.

Everyone needed him.

Except, apparently, the company could refinance while he sat outside the room.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“For what?”

“That it hurts.”

He laughed softly.

“You’re divorcing me and still nicer than I deserve.”

“Don’t make me responsible for your self-esteem.”

“Right.”

A pause.

“Therapist said that too.”

“Then keep paying her.”

When the call ended, I looked at the recusal letter again.

For the first time, the power everyone feared I held had done exactly what power should sometimes do.

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Nothing.

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