Chương 8
"What?"
"He said there was a difference between humility and hiding."
Rebecca waited.
"I think I forgot the difference."
Before she could answer, my phone rang.
Daniel.
I answered immediately.
"Tell me you found something."
"I found enough to be concerned."
My grip tightened around the phone.
"Explain."
"The signature on the amendment is yours."
The relief I expected did not come.
Instead, confusion deepened.
"What?"
"I had a forensic document examiner review a copy."
"An actual examiner?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"They believe it is authentic."
I looked at Rebecca.
She could tell from my face that the answer was not what I wanted.
"Then why don't I remember signing it?"
Daniel was quiet.
"That's the problem."
I stood and walked toward the window.
The city below looked impossibly normal.
"I need the original."
"I already requested it."
"From who?"
"Prescott Group's archives."
I stopped.
"Will Aaron know?"
"He will eventually."
That was not the answer I wanted.
But it was honest.
"Daniel."
"Yes?"
"Did you know about this amendment before today?"
"No."
The certainty in his voice mattered.
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely."
I believed him.
Daniel was many things.
Careful.
Practical.
Sometimes frustratingly neutral.
But he was not careless.
"What else did you find?"
A pause.
"There are internal emails."
My stomach tightened.
"Between who?"
"Aaron and a few senior executives."
"What about?"
"Control."
The word sat there.
"Control of what?"
"The company."
I closed my eyes.
"How?"
"Certain decisions regarding intellectual property, voting rights, and future acquisitions."
I thought about Aaron's meetings.
The investment group.
The restructuring conversations.
The sudden urgency.
"He was preparing."
"Possibly."
"No."
I opened my eyes.
"He was."
Daniel did not argue.
Because he knew.
The hardest truths were often the ones nobody wanted to say first.
"He may have believed he was protecting the company," Daniel said.
I almost laughed.
Not because it was impossible.
Because it sounded exactly like something Aaron would tell himself.
Aaron had always been good at convincing himself his choices were necessary.
He could turn almost anything into a responsibility.
Even selfishness.
"Protection without honesty is still control," I said.
Daniel was quiet.
Then he said something unexpected.
"You know, there is something I never understood."
"What?"
"Why you stayed."
The question was not cruel.
It was genuine.
I looked at the old bookshelves.
At my father's files.
At the room where I had once learned that love and business could become dangerously mixed.
"Neither did I."
That answer surprised me.
Because it was true.
I had spent years creating explanations.
He was under pressure.
He was building something.
He needed support.
Marriage required sacrifice.
Every explanation sounded reasonable individually.
Together, they became a cage.
"I need to see the emails," I said.
The call ended.
For several minutes, I did nothing.
Then Rebecca spoke.
"Are you okay?"
I smiled faintly.
"No."
She nodded.
"Good."
I looked at her.
She shrugged.
"Not because I want you to suffer."
"I know."
"Because you keep saying you are fine whenever something hurts."
That was irritating because it was accurate.
I picked up another document.
"You're very direct."
"My mother says it's my worst quality."
"What do you think?"
"I think it's saved me a lot of time."
I laughed quietly.
The sound surprised both of us.
It was the first real laugh I had had in days.
Not because anything was funny.
Because for a moment, I remembered I was still a person.
Not a wife.
Not an investor.
Not a name attached to a company dispute.
Just a person.
Around three in the afternoon, Daniel sent the emails.
I opened them slowly.
The first message was from Aaron.
The subject line was simple.
Long-term protection plan.
The language was exactly how Aaron wrote.
Professional.
Controlled.
Certain.
He described concerns about outside investors gaining influence.
He discussed protecting the company's future.
He mentioned "reducing unnecessary variables."
I read that sentence three times.
Unnecessary variables.
That was how he had started seeing me.
Not as a person.
As a risk.
The second email contained a draft proposal.
The third contained a meeting schedule.
I recognized one of the dates.
It was the week after our anniversary.
The week Aaron told me he was too busy to celebrate because of an important board meeting.
I remembered that night.
I had eaten dinner alone.
He had come home after midnight.
He apologized.
He kissed my forehead.
He said he was doing it all for our future.
At the time, I believed him.
Now I wondered what future he meant.
My phone buzzed.
Another message.
From Aaron.
Can we meet tonight?
I stared at the screen.
A year ago, I would have changed my entire schedule.
Five years ago, I would have been grateful he asked.
Today, I simply felt tired.
I typed back.
Where?
The response came quickly.
Our house.
I looked around my father's office.
The word our felt different now.
I wrote:
Rebecca looked concerned.
"Are you sure?"
"No."
She smiled slightly.
"At least you're honest now."
I gathered the documents.
When I arrived home that evening, the house lights were on.
For a second, I expected everything to feel normal.
I expected Aaron to walk toward me like he used to.
I expected some part of our old life to still exist.
Instead, I found him sitting alone in the living room.
No assistants.
No executives.
No mother.
No Jasmine.
Just Aaron.
And somehow, that made the situation harder.
Because without the audience, he looked less like a billionaire.
He looked like the man who had once sat on our apartment floor afraid his dream was ending.
He stood when he saw me.
"Alyssa."
I stayed near the doorway.
"You wanted to talk."
He nodded.
"I did."
A long silence followed.
Then he said the one thing I did not expect.
"I'm sorry."
The words were quiet.
Almost fragile.
I waited.
Because apologies were easy.
Change was harder.
Aaron looked at me.
"I know that doesn't fix anything."
May you like
"No."
He swallowed.
