Chapter 8 - The Board's Question

Three days later, Prescott Global placed Aaron on temporary leave.

The announcement used careful language.

“Pending completion of an independent review.”

Nathan read it aloud from his phone.

“Corporate poetry.”

I stared at the television in his office.

“They suspended him?”

“Temporarily.”

“Because of me?”

“No.”

“The Slack message started this.”

“The Slack message made people look. What they found is their responsibility.”

I hated how reasonable that sounded.

My phone began buzzing before the business channel finished the segment.

Aaron’s sister.

Evelyn.

Two reporters.

Then Aaron.

I answered.

“What?”

“You got what you wanted.”

His voice was flat.

“No.”

“I’m out.”

“Temporarily.”

“Do not lawyer me.”

“I’m not.”

“You embarrassed me, discovery opened my life, and now I’m locked out of my own office.”

I stood.

“Nobody made you submit questionable expenses.”

“That is not why.”

“What is why?”

“The board says I failed to disclose a personal relationship that could create a conflict.”

“You kissed your direct report.”

“One time.”

“You slept at her apartment three times.”

“In a guest area.”

“She doesn’t have a guest room.”

Silence.

“You talked to her.”

“Yes.”

His voice hardened.

“Of course you did.”

“She asked to meet me.”

“And you believed everything she said?”

“I believed the screenshots she showed me.”

Aaron stopped breathing for half a beat.

“What screenshots?”

“Talk to your lawyer.”

“Claire.”

“No.”

He lowered his voice.

“I never told her I loved her.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“I never promised her anything.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“I never planned to leave you.”

“That is not comforting.”

He exhaled sharply.

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you to stop treating every consequence as something being done to you.”

Silence.

Then he said, “The board asked whether I favored Jasmine for promotion.”

I sat down again.

“Did you?”

“No.”

“Were you involved?”

“Yes. I’m the CEO.”

“Did you disclose the personal closeness?”

“There was nothing physical then.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Another silence.

“No.”

I closed my eyes.

“When was she promoted?”

“Eight months ago.”

“Before the overnight stays?”

“Yes.”

“Before the personal messages?”

“No.”

There it was.

Not proof of corruption.

Proof of a boundary he kept refusing to see.

“Then answer the board honestly.”

“I am.”

“Good.”

He laughed bitterly.

“You sound like Nathan.”

“That may be the cruelest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

For a second, neither of us spoke.

Then Aaron laughed too.

It was small.

Familiar.

Dangerous.

I remembered kitchen mornings.

Burned toast.

His hand at my waist.

The way he used to steal the first sip of my coffee and claim mine tasted better.

Grief arrived so quickly I had to grip the desk.

Aaron heard the silence.

“Claire?”

“I have to go.”

“Wait.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“All of it.”

“That is too large to be useful.”

“Then I’m sorry I made you lonely.”

My throat tightened.

I did not answer.

He continued.

“I’m sorry I made work feel urgent and you feel permanent.”

I stared at the wall.

“That one is useful.”

“I should have come home.”

“Yes.”

“Every time.”

“Yes.”

He took a breath.

“Does hearing that help?”

“No.”

“I figured.”

“But it matters.”

We stayed silent.

Then I ended the call.

Nathan had deliberately left the room halfway through.

When he returned, he carried two coffees.

“I heard no shouting.”

“I’m evolving.”

“Terrifying.”

I took the cup.

“What did the board find?”

“Not our file.”

“You know something.”

“I know what their lawyers told your lawyers.”

“Which is?”

“They want production of any documents showing whether you or Mercer Vale contacted directors, lenders, clients, or employees after the Slack post.”

“I didn’t.”

“Easy response, then.”

“Why are they asking?”

“To establish whether there was coordinated pressure.”

“Pressure from me?”

“Or from anyone around you.”

I frowned.

“My father?”

“Possibly.”

“He would never.”

“Then we document that.”

My phone buzzed again.

This time, it was my aunt Nora.

I answered.

“Please tell me you haven’t contacted Prescott.”

“I haven’t.”

“Good.”

“But Samuel Keene contacted me.”

The room went still.

“The board chair?”

“Yes.”

“What did he want?”

“He asked whether Mercer Vale remained confident in Prescott’s credit.”

Nathan moved closer.

“What did you say?”

“I said credit decisions are handled through the investment committee and that Claire is recused.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes.”

I closed my eyes.

“Nora.”

“I told him governance instability is always relevant to credit.”

Nathan pinched the bridge of his nose.

“That is technically true.”

“That sentence is never reassuring.”

Nora continued.

“He also asked whether Mercer Vale would object to a leadership change.”

I stared at the phone.

“And?”

“I told him lenders do not appoint Prescott’s CEO.”

Nathan and I looked at each other.

“Why would he ask that?”

“Because,” Nora said, “your husband’s leave may not be as temporary as he thinks.”

After we hung up, I sat very still.

I had wanted Aaron to understand that neglect had consequences.

I had never wanted to decide whether he kept his company.

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But now the two parts of his life he had always separated—home and work—were collapsing into each other.

And everyone seemed to think I held a match.