Chương 4
Because hearing the man I loved sound afraid was harder than hearing him sound cruel.
But fear was not the same as understanding.
And regret was not the same as change.
I walked toward the waiting car without answering.
Behind me, the jet remained silent.
And for the first time in years, I was not walking away because Aaron asked me to leave.
I was walking away because I had finally chosen to stay with myself.
The car door closed behind me before I realized my hands were shaking.
Not because I regretted leaving.
Because my body was finally catching up with what my mind had already accepted.
For years, I had trained myself to remain composed whenever Aaron was under pressure.
I had learned how to read the smallest changes in his expression.
A tighter jaw meant a difficult investor call.
A quiet dinner meant a bad day at the office.
A longer shower after midnight meant he had lost another deal and did not want to admit it.
I had memorized him so completely that I had forgotten to notice myself.
The driver glanced at me through the rearview mirror.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Prescott?”
I almost answered automatically.
Yes.
That was what I always said.
Yes when I was exhausted.
Yes when I was hurt.
Yes when I wanted someone to stop asking.
But the word did not come.
I looked out the window at the private airfield disappearing behind us.
“No,” I said finally.
The driver looked surprised.
Then he nodded once and returned his attention to the road.
He did not tell me everything would be okay.
He did not tell me to be strong.
He simply let the answer exist.
It was a strangely kind thing.
My phone started vibrating before we reached the highway.
The first call was from my attorney.
The second was from the family office.
The third was from someone at Prescott Technologies.
I watched the names appear on the screen without answering.
Not because I was ignoring them.
Because I needed five minutes where nobody needed something from me.
That had become the rarest thing in my life.
Five quiet minutes.
The car moved through morning traffic.
People drove to work.
A woman in the next lane was singing along to a song while her coffee cup sat in the holder beside her.
A man on the sidewalk was arguing with a parking meter.
A delivery truck blocked half the road and several drivers complained.
Ordinary things.
Small things.
Things that had continued happening while I was inside a marriage that had slowly become unfamiliar.
I rested my head against the seat.
For a moment, I wondered if I had gone too far.
The thought came quickly.
Almost shamefully.
That was the strange thing about leaving.
Even when someone hurts you, your first instinct can still be to protect them.
I knew what would happen if Prescott Technologies struggled.
Thousands of employees depended on the company.
Families depended on paychecks.
People who had never met me could suffer because of decisions made between two people on a private jet.
That was why I had not acted sooner.
Not because I was weak.
Because I understood the weight of what I held.
My money.
My patents.
My influence.
Those things were not weapons.
They were responsibilities.
The difference was that Aaron had forgotten they were mine.
The attorney answered on the fourth ring.
“Alyssa.”
Her voice was calm.
Too calm for someone who had just helped start a corporate crisis.
“Tell me where we are,” I said.
“The board has acknowledged receipt.”
“Reaction?”
“Mixed.”
I looked outside.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning some people are angry because they thought this would never happen.”
I closed my eyes.
“And the others?”
“They are asking questions.”
That made sense.
People rarely became curious when everything was working.
They became curious when something stopped working.
“What questions?”
My attorney paused.
“The main question is why the founder of a billion-dollar technology company has never disclosed the ownership structure behind several foundational patents.”
I said nothing.
Because that question had been waiting for years.
Aaron had not technically lied.
That was the complicated part.
He had allowed people to believe a version of the story that benefited him.
The company had grown.
The media loved him.
Investors loved him.
The image of a young entrepreneur who built an empire from nothing was worth billions.
Nobody wanted the more complicated story.
The one where success was not created by one person standing alone.
The one where someone else had quietly carried part of the weight.
“Has Aaron contacted you?” my attorney asked.
I almost laughed.
“Several times.”
“And?”
“I did not answer.”
“That is probably wise.”
I looked down at my hand.
My wedding ring was still there.
I had not taken it off.
I had imagined that moment many times over the years.
I thought if my marriage ended, I would remove it dramatically.
I thought there would be tears.
Anger.
Some final symbolic act.
Instead, I was sitting in the back seat of a car, staring at a piece of jewelry that suddenly felt like an object from someone else’s life.
“I need you to do something,” I said.
“Anything.”
“Do not destroy him.”
There was a pause.
My attorney knew me well enough not to misunderstand.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“I know.”
“Then why say it?”
Because part of me was still protecting him.
I hated admitting that.
“I need to make sure this is about accountability,” I said.
“Not punishment.”
The answer came quietly.
“That is why I work with you, Alyssa.”
I looked out the window again.
The city moved around me.
“I’m not sure I know who I am without fixing his problems.”
My attorney did not answer immediately.
When she finally spoke, her voice softened.
“Then maybe this is the first time you get to find out.”
The call ended shortly after.
May you like
I sat there for another few minutes.
Then my phone lit up again.
