Chương 10
His jaw tightened.
I continued.
“Why was there a shortfall?”
He looked away.
Ruth leaned against the wall.
Miriam waited.
Nobody rescued him.
Finally, Aaron said, “We had redemptions.”
Daniel had not mentioned that.
I stared at him.
“From where?”
“A private credit vehicle.”
“What vehicle?”
“One of the treasury structures.”
Miriam’s eyes narrowed.
“Controlled by Prescott?”
“Partially.”
“Partially controlled by whom else?”
Aaron said nothing.
The silence answered before the words did.
“Mercer?” I asked.
He nodded once.
I felt something inside me sink.
“How long has Mercer been inside your treasury structure?”
“Eighteen months.”
The same period as the unexplained transfers.
Ruth’s face hardened.
“You never disclosed a shared vehicle to the board.”
“It was disclosed to finance.”
“I am the chair of the audit committee.”
“It was not material at inception.”
“Three point two billion dollars became material.”
“It wasn’t three point two at inception.”
“How much?”
“Forty million.”
Ruth stared at him.
“You turned forty million into three point two billion without a full board review.”
“It scaled.”
“So does cancer.”
Aaron looked at her sharply.
Ruth did not apologize.
Miriam asked, “Why Mercer?”
Aaron leaned back and rubbed his eyes.
“Because they could move quickly.”
“Again, description.”
He dropped his hands.
“My bank group started tightening covenants after the second-quarter miss.”
I remembered that quarter.
Aaron had told me the earnings call was noise.
He had spent the next weekend at our house in Malibu pretending not to check his phone every six minutes.
“You told the market the miss was temporary,” I said.
“It was.”
“Was it?”
“Yes.”
“Then why were lenders tightening?”
“Because lenders are cowards.”
That sounded like Aaron.
It also sounded like avoidance.
Miriam glanced at me and then back to him.
“What did Mercer know that the board did not?”
He went still.
There.
The question beneath every other question.
His voice lowered.
“They knew about the deferred contracts.”
Ruth straightened.
“What deferred contracts?”
Aaron’s eyes closed briefly.
“Two major customers pushed renewals into the next quarter.”
“You recognized revenue anyway?”
“No.”
He sounded offended.
“We forecasted it.”
“Publicly?”
“Yes.”
“Internally?”
“Also yes.”
Ruth’s face changed.
“Were the customers committed?”
Aaron did not answer immediately.
That was enough.
“Were they committed?” she repeated.
“Verbally.”
Miriam’s younger attorney stopped typing.
I noticed because the sudden silence of the keyboard felt loud.
Ruth stared at Aaron.
“You used verbal renewal expectations to support acquisition financing?”
“They had renewed for six consecutive years.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
He stood again.
“I was trying to keep momentum.”
Ruth laughed once.
It was the first time I had ever heard her laugh without humor.
“Momentum.”
“Yes.”
“You pledged assets you did not own, concealed a related-party credit structure, and relied on uncommitted revenue because you were protecting momentum.”
“You are simplifying it.”
“I am making it understandable.”
Aaron turned to me.
“This is what happens.”
“What?”
“When people who weren’t there rewrite decisions after the fact.”
The words hit something old.
For years, he had said versions of that whenever I questioned a choice he did not want examined.
You weren’t in the room.
You don’t understand the pressure.
You don’t know how this business works.
I looked at him and finally understood how useful those phrases had been.
They made accountability sound like ignorance.
“I was there for the first decision,” I said.
“What first decision?”
“When you were almost bankrupt.”
His face changed.
“I was there when you chose to accept my money.”
“That is not the same.”
“It is the beginning of the same road.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You think I owe you every decision forever because your family bailed me out once?”
Miriam stiffened.
Ruth looked at the floor.
The sentence hung there.
Four years ago, I would have defended the gift.
Two years ago, I would have reminded him it was an investment.
Yesterday, I might have cried.
Today, I only felt tired.
“No,” I said.
“You owe your board the truth because they govern the company.”
I looked at him.
“You owe lenders accurate information because they risk capital.”
Another breath.
“You owe me nothing for loving you.”
That last sentence changed his face.
I wished it had not.
He looked almost wounded.
Good.
A petty part of me was glad.
I did not admire that part.
I let it exist anyway.
Miriam broke the silence.
“We need the side letter.”
Aaron looked away.
“I don’t have it.”
“Who does?”
“Mercer.”
“Who at Mercer?”
“Victor.”
“Jasmine’s father.”
“Yes.”
Ruth crossed her arms.
“Call him.”
Aaron laughed.
“I’m suspended.”
“Your personal phone is being preserved, not destroyed.”
“Marcus told me not to contact relevant parties.”
Miriam nodded.
“He’s right.”
“So why did you tell me to call him?”
Ruth’s mouth tightened.
“Habit.”
For some reason, that almost made me smile.
Almost.
Then Jasmine appeared in the doorway.
Her face was blotchy from crying.
She held a printed page in one hand.
Nobody had asked her to come in.
Aaron’s body went rigid the moment he saw her.
“What are you doing here?”
She looked at Miriam.
“Marcus said I could give this directly to counsel.”
Miriam stepped forward.
“What is it?”
Jasmine handed her the page.
“My father texted me.”
Aaron moved.
Not toward Jasmine exactly.
Toward the document.
Ruth blocked him with one arm.
“What did he say?” I asked.
Jasmine looked at me.
“He knows about the investigation.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
Aaron swore under his breath.
Jasmine continued.
“He told me not to sign anything and not to surrender my phone.”
Miriam unfolded the page.
“Anything else?”
Jasmine’s mouth trembled.
“Yes.”
She looked at Aaron.
“He said the side letter protects Mercer if Prescott defaults.”
Aaron’s expression hardened.
“That’s standard.”
Jasmine shook her head.
“That isn’t all.”
“What else?”
She swallowed.
“He said the default already happened.”
Nobody moved.
Miriam looked down at the printed message.
“When?”
Jasmine answered without taking her eyes off Aaron.
May you like
“Six days ago.”
Ruth’s voice went flat.
