Chương 6
“I don’t know.”
“Where am I supposed to go?”
The question was practical.
It relieved him.
“The Denver house is in my name.”
She stiffened.
“I know.”
“You can stay there tonight.”
“And you?”
“I’ll stay here.”
She nodded.
“I’ll get my things tomorrow.”
“You don’t have to do it tomorrow.”
“I do.”
“Claire.”
“If I wait, I’ll convince myself you’re coming back.”
He had no answer.
She reached the door.
Then stopped.
“Did you ever think I loved your name more than you?”
He looked at her.
“No.”
“Even now?”
“Even now.”
She swallowed.
“That’s worse.”
“I know.”
She left.
Rose slept badly.
Ethan knew because he found her in the kitchen at three in the morning eating vanilla yogurt directly from the container.
She had changed into navy pajamas and a gray cardigan. The red mark on her cheek had faded into a dull bruise.
“You’re supposed to use a bowl,” Ethan said.
She looked at him.
“At my age?”
“At any age.”
“Communist.”
He sat across from her.
The kitchen staff had gone home. Half the overhead lights were off. Someone had left trays of unused champagne glasses drying beside the sink.
Rose pushed a second yogurt toward him.
He opened it.
They ate in silence.
After a while she said, “I shouldn’t have confronted her by the aisle.”
“No.”
“I was angry.”
“I know.”
“I said things I shouldn’t have.”
He looked at her.
“What things?”
Rose scraped yogurt from the side of the container.
“I told her she was proving me right.”
“That was cruel.”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell her I’d regret marrying her?”
Rose’s hand stopped.
“Yes.”
Ethan nodded.
“She told me.”
“I meant it.”
“That doesn’t improve it.”
“No.”
He appreciated that she didn’t defend herself.
Rose set the spoon down.
“I have never been good at losing gracefully.”
“What were you losing?”
“You.”
Ethan looked at her.
Rose stared at the dark window above the sink.
“Your mother had you young. Your father was gone half the time even before the divorce. You became mine because somebody needed to make sure you did homework and ate vegetables and didn’t wear the same socks for five days.”
“Three days.”
“Five.”
“Allegedly.”
She smiled.
Then it disappeared.
“I got used to being necessary.”
The words surprised him.
Rose rarely spoke about feelings directly.
She preferred information. Tire pressure. Interest rates. Whether a casserole could survive another day in the refrigerator.
“When you met Claire,” she said, “you stopped calling me about things.”
“I still called.”
“You called to check on me. Different.”
Ethan sat quietly.
Rose folded the yogurt lid into smaller and smaller rectangles.
“I didn’t trust her. Some of that was instinct. Some was evidence. Some was jealousy.”
He looked at her.
“That’s a weird thing to admit.”
“I’m seventy-nine. Shame has become inefficient.”
He laughed.
Then his eyes burned unexpectedly.
Rose noticed and looked away, giving him the privacy of pretending not to.
“I never wanted you to need me forever,” she said. “I just didn’t know what to do when you didn’t.”
He rubbed his face.
“You could get a hobby.”
“I have hobbies.”
“Terrorizing contractors doesn’t count.”
“It does in Colorado.”
He laughed again.
For a few seconds they were somewhere older and safer.
Then Ethan looked at the bruise on her cheek.
“Are you going to report her?”
Rose frowned.
“To police?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
“She assaulted you.”
“I’m aware.”
“You could have fallen.”
“I didn’t.”
“That’s not the point.”
Rose gave him a long look.
“You don’t get to make my choices because you’re frightened.”
The words landed with embarrassing precision.
Ethan leaned back.
“Fine.”
“I may change my mind.”
“Fine.”
“I probably won’t.”
“Fine.”
“You sound twelve.”
He stood.
“I’m going to bed.”
“You won’t sleep.”
“No.”
“Neither will I.”
He paused.
“Do you want tea?”
“Yes.”
He filled the kettle.
At 8:04 the next morning, a photo of Claire slapping Rose appeared online.
Not video.
A still image.
Claire’s arm extended, Rose’s face turned, Ethan blurred in the background moving toward them.
The caption called Claire “Billionaire Heir Ethan Morgan’s Bride.”
Ethan wasn’t a billionaire.
By 8:12, three entertainment sites had copied the photo.
By nine, someone had posted an old photograph of Claire and Thomas Bell at a charity gala beside speculation about Bell Development.
By ten, Laura called.
“We have a larger problem.”
Ethan was standing outside the conservatory watching workers remove frozen flowers from a loading dock.
“What?”
“The succession schedule upload came from Mark’s credentials, but not his office device.”
“Where?”
“An IP associated with Bell Development.”
Ethan closed his eyes.
“Mark gave them access.”
“Looks that way.”
“Have you spoken to him?”
“He’s not answering.”
Ethan checked his own phone.
Three missed calls from reporters.
One from Claire.
One message from her.
I did not leak the photo.
He hadn’t thought she had.
Then another message arrived.
My father is at my house. He says a lender called him. Please don’t talk to the press yet.
Ethan typed, I wasn’t planning to.
He deleted it.
Typed, I won’t.
Sent.
Laura continued.
“I’m freezing Mark’s company access.”
“Do it.”
“We also need to discuss whether to notify our board.”
“We have to.”
“Yes.”
“What does this expose us to?”
“Depends what Bell represented to the bank.”
Ethan looked at the workers carrying white orchids into gray plastic bins.
“Can you find out?”
“Martin is trying.”
The next call came from Mark.
Ethan answered immediately.
“Where are you?”
Silence.
Then, “Home.”
Mark had worked for Ethan for four years.
Thirty-one, bright, funny, annoyingly good at remembering birthdays. He had been in the wedding party but not as a groomsman because the guest list had become a political negotiation Ethan stopped caring about.
“Laura says Bell Development accessed the governance portal through your credentials.”
Mark exhaled.
“I can explain.”
“Please do.”
“Thomas told me you approved the restructure.”
“Did I tell you?”
May you like
“No.”
“Then why did you give him access?”
