Chapter 7 - The Prototyping Lab
Deirdre didn't stop at the supervisor’s desk. She walked straight down the center aisle of the assembly hall, her heels clicking sharply against the concrete floor, ignoring the sudden drop in noise as nearby workers glanced up from their benches.
She stopped three feet from Marlow’s workbench, her pale eyes narrowing as she took in the fresh stack of white ash—real, high-grade Vermont ash, untouched by pine—sitting on Marlow’s sawhorse.
“An interesting promotion, Marlow,” Deirdre said, her voice dropping into a smooth, razor-thin cadence that only the two of them could hear over the hum of the belt sander. “Moving from the night shift to the prototyping lab overnight. James certainly moves fast when he finds a pretty face willing to play games in abandoned boathouses.”
Marlow didn't step back. She kept her hands resting flat against the wooden edge of her workbench, her posture straight. “The timber looks different this morning, Deirdre. Real ash. Smells cleaner when you run it through the planer.”
Deirdre’s smile didn't reach her eyes; it tightened into a hard, white line. “The supply chain fluctuates. Sometimes administrative adjustments are necessary to balance the ledger. But administrative adjustments can also be unmade just as quickly by a unanimous vote of the board of directors.”
“A board vote requires a quorum,” Marlow replied smoothly, echoing the legal phrasing she had memorized from Amos’s lockbox documents. “And according to the revised voting trust currently resting in James’s safe, any board action affecting procurement requires the consent of the majority shareholder.”
Deirdre went entirely still. The ambient roar of the factory seemed to vanish around them. For a fraction of a second, the immaculate corporate mask slipped, revealing a flash of genuine, venomous shock.
“You think a piece of paper signed by a dying old man in his dotage gives you control of this company?” Deirdre hissed softly, leaning in close enough that Marlow could catch the sharp, chemical scent of her winter perfume. “Amos was losing his grip for months before he passed. If I submit a petition for a mental competency review of those filings, every detail of your private life—your daughter’s school records, your financial audits, every missed rent payment from three years ago—will be printed on the front page of the county gazette before the week is out.”
Marlow’s breath hitched, the threat striking precisely where it hurt most—not at her, but at Pippa. But she forced the panic down, remembering the weight of the metal lockbox and James’s quiet determination in the boathouse.
“You can dig up whatever history you want, Deirdre,” Marlow said, her voice dropping into an icy, level register. “But if you touch my daughter or try to block the timber inventory arriving at Bay Four today, I won't just hand Amos’s forensic audit to the board. I’ll walk it down to the state prosecutor’s office myself, complete with your wife-in-law’s offshore wire routing numbers. Let’s see how fast the county gazette prints your story then.”
Deirdre straightened slowly, her face pale with suppressed fury. She adjusted the lapel of her blazer, her fingers trembling ever so slightly.
“You’re playing a very dangerous game, carpenter,” Deirdre whispered.
“No,” Marlow replied, picking up a chisel and turning back to her workbench. “I’m just finishing the job your department started.”
May you like
Before Deirdre could answer, a sharp chime echoed through the factory PA system, followed by the factory manager’s voice summoning an emergency executive committee meeting in the second-floor conference room—with James Bridger presiding.
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