Chương 7
It came from the edge of a broken bathroom mirror.
The glass had not cut her when Richard struck her.
It cut her when she fell.
For months she had used that distinction to defend him.
He didn’t cut me.
As though gravity were the violent one.
She showered.
When she came downstairs, she found an email from Chloe Mercer.
Emily stared at the sender’s name.
The subject line read:
The necklace.
She almost deleted it.
Instead she opened it.
Emily,
I told the clerk I do not claim the necklace and that Richard gave it to me last December. I had no idea it belonged to you or your grandmother.
I also need to tell you something about the night he gave it to me.
I don’t know if it matters.
I do not expect you to trust me.
Chloe
Emily read it twice.
Then she forwarded it to Arthur without replying.
He called forty seconds later.
“I thought you went home,” she said.
“I did.”
“You monitor email in your driveway?”
“My wife is watching a documentary about competitive baking.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“It explains my availability.”
Emily sat at the kitchen table.
“What do you think?”
“I think you should not reply tonight.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Good.”
“She knows something.”
“Possibly.”
“Or Richard told her to contact me.”
“Possibly.”
Emily rubbed her forehead.
“What happens if she has evidence?”
“We find out what it is and how she obtained it.”
“What if she just wants to save herself?”
“Likely.”
Emily frowned.
“You say that like it makes her useless.”
“I did not.”
“You sounded like it.”
Arthur sighed.
“People often become cooperative when their interests change. That does not make what they know false. It means we verify it.”
Emily looked toward the jammed kitchen drawer.
“Can I reply tomorrow?”
“We should coordinate.”
“Arthur.”
“Yes, you can reply tomorrow.”
She hung up.
Then she spent ten minutes fixing the drawer.
The wooden runner had swollen.
She rubbed wax along the edge and pushed it in and out until it stopped catching.
It was the kind of task Richard used to hire someone for.
Emily liked doing it herself.
Not because it symbolized independence.
Because she hated waiting for repair appointments.
The next morning Vance Meridian’s stock, privately held but widely valued in financing agreements, became the subject of financial press speculation. Lenders called. Suppliers called. Employees called managers who called other managers, creating a chain of anxiety that reached Emily before eight.
At eight fifteen she entered company headquarters for the first time in eleven months.
Security had been instructed to issue Richard no access.
Emily still looked toward the glass doors when they opened behind her.
A delivery driver entered carrying coffee.
Her body relaxed before she could stop it.
The receptionist stood.
“Ms. Vance.”
“Hi, Janet.”
Janet looked close to tears.
Maya had been right.
Someone would cry.
Emily pointed at her.
“Don’t.”
Janet laughed instead, which was better.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Excellent. Let’s avoid apologizing for unidentified offenses before nine.”
Janet wiped her eyes.
“That sounds like you.”
Emily stopped.
The words struck harder than they should have.
She nodded and continued toward the elevators.
Employees pretended not to stare.
Some failed badly.
A man from accounting stepped aside to let her pass and nearly walked into a plant.
Emily said, “Morning, Eric.”
He turned red.
“Morning.”
On the executive floor, Richard’s office door was sealed with a notice from outside counsel.
Emily’s office had become a storage room.
She stood in the doorway.
Boxes filled one wall.
A broken presentation monitor leaned against her former desk.
Someone had placed surplus printer paper on the chair where her father once sat and told her she had no business trying to run the medical division because she was too impatient.
She had proved him wrong.
Then eventually he became proud.
Then he died and left voting shares in a structure Richard spent years learning how to exploit.
Joseph Patel appeared behind her.
“We can clear this.”
Emily picked up a box labeled HOLIDAY DECOR.
“No.”
“You need an office.”
“So does legal.”
“Emily.”
She turned.
Joseph looked exhausted.
“You should use Richard’s.”
“No.”
“He is suspended.”
“I know.”
“That office is technically assigned to the chief executive.”
“Then we’ll decide who the chief executive is after the board meets.”
Joseph studied her.
“You’re not taking the title automatically.”
“No.”
“I assumed you would.”
“I know.”
That made him uncomfortable.
Good.
Before Richard, Emily might have enjoyed making him uncomfortable.
After Richard, she distrusted the pleasure.
She placed the holiday box back.
“Conference Room B is empty.”
“It has no windows.”
“I’ll survive.”
At ten, the board met in person.
They voted to appoint the chief operating officer, Marcus Bell, as interim CEO for thirty days, subject to review.
Marcus looked stunned.
Richard had nearly fired him the previous year.
Emily had argued privately against it before Richard cut off her access to the board.
Marcus turned to her after the vote.
“You don’t want the job?”
“Not today.”
He frowned.
“You could take it.”
“Yes.”
“Then why not?”
Emily looked around the table.
“Because the company needs someone concentrating on operations, not litigation. And because I don’t know yet whether I want to run this place again.”
No one spoke.
It was the first time she had admitted that aloud.
For two years, getting the company back had been inseparable from getting herself back.
Arthur had warned her that courts could restore ownership but not meaning.
She had dismissed him.
Now Vance Meridian sat around her in spreadsheets, nervous faces, supplier calls, and the faint smell of burned coffee from the executive kitchen.
She felt affection.
Anger.
Ownership.
Resentment.
Nothing clean enough to call a dream.
Joseph tapped his pen.
“All right.”
After the meeting, Arthur called.
“Chloe has counsel.”
“Already?”
“She hired a lawyer last night.”
“Smart.”
“Yes.”
May you like
“What does she want?”
“To speak voluntarily regarding documents and property Richard gave her.”
