Chapter 6 - The Weight of the Anchor
The photograph of Aaron standing in the rain outside the locked glass doors of Prescott Global sat on my phone screen, glowing in the dim light of my parents’ kitchen. Richard Vance Sr. wasn’t just a ghost from my grandfather’s past; he was the shadow looming over every corporate maneuver Aaron had ever executed.
Thirty years ago, Richard Vance Sr. had been bought out of Sterling Capital under terms that my family’s private ledgers had always glossed over as a standard restructuring. But looking at the corporate lineage chart Nathan had sent me, the truth was stark: Vance Sr. hadn’t walked away empty-handed. He had retained a dormant, conditional lien on any subsidiary capital derived from early New England manufacturing trusts—trusts that Prescott Global had quietly absorbed during its aggressive expansion five years ago.
Aaron hadn’t just been installed as CEO because of his last name. He had been chosen because his ignorance of family corporate histories made him the ideal proxy to unwittingly unlock those dormant liens.
My phone buzzed against the wooden counter. It wasn't Aaron this time. It was Nathan.
“Are you awake? I pulled the original 1994 buyout agreement between your grandfather and Vance Sr. You need to see this. Call me.”
I tapped his number immediately.
"Nathan," I said before he could finish his greeting. "I saw the text. What does the buyout agreement say?"
"It says your grandfather didn't just buy out Vance Sr.," Nathan’s voice was tense, the background hum of his office suggesting he had been up all night. "He settled a debt. A massive one. Vance Sr. embezzled from Sterling’s early real estate portfolio back in the eighties. Instead of sending him to federal prison, your grandfather let him step down quietly on one condition: that the Vance family never touch a single asset bearing the Prescott or Sterling name again."
"And yet, Richard Vance Jr. has spent the last three years elbow-deep in Prescott Global’s corporate restructuring," I pointed out, walking back toward the hallway.
"Which means young Vance isn't acting as a corporate defense attorney," Nathan said grimly. "He’s executing a vendetta. And he used Jasmine Cole to manage Aaron because they needed an inside track to siphon the exact accounts tied to the old 1994 settlement."
I paused at the foot of the stairs, looking up into the dark second-floor corridor. "Where is Aaron now?"
"He's sitting in the lobby of my building," Nathan sighed. "He showed up forty minutes ago, soaked to the bone, asking to speak with you."
"Tell him to go home," I said, my voice hardening.
"Claire, he knows about Jasmine. He knows she cleaned out her desk and vanished right after the board suspended him. He’s completely unraveled. If you don't talk to him, he’s going to go straight to Vance’s office and sign whatever suicide pill they put in front of him just to get his title back."
I closed my eyes, breathing in the scent of cedar and salt. For three years, I had cleaned up Aaron's messes, smoothed over his social blunders, and watched him prioritize a corporate machine that viewed him as disposable. Walking back into his chaos felt like putting on a wet, heavy coat I had finally managed to shed.
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"Tell him I'll meet him," I said quietly. "Not at your office. Not in Boston. Have him drive out to Marblehead. If he wants to talk, he can do it where there are no corporate boardrooms, no glass walls, and no lawyers."
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