“We don’t need lawyers involved.”
That interested me.
“Who mentioned lawyers?”
His eyes flickered.
“No one. I’m saying we can deal with this privately.”
“You’ve been sleeping with another woman for two years.”
“I made a mistake.”
“A mistake is buying the wrong milk.”
He slammed the glass down.
“I said I’m sorry.”
“No, you didn’t.”
He stared at me.
I continued.
“You told me not to humiliate your mistress. You told me to go home. You called the affair a mistake only after thirty employees saw it.”
“You want me to beg?”
“No.”
“What do you want?”
For years, that question would have terrified me.
Because Flynn controlled everything I might have asked for.
Money.
Security.
My home.
My future.
But now a gray folder sat upstairs.
So I looked at him and said,
“Nothing tonight.”
His expression hardened.
“Don’t do anything stupid, Mabel.”
I almost laughed.
Instead, I stood.
“Flynn?”
“What?”
“How much of Vance Global do you own?”
His eyebrows drew together.
“What kind of question is that?”
“Just curious.”
“It’s my family’s company.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
He stared at me for several seconds.
Then he said, “Go to bed.”
That was when I knew.
Flynn had absolutely no idea.
By eight the next morning, the video had leaked.
Not publicly.
Not yet.
But inside Vance Global, everybody knew.
My phone began filling with messages.
Some sympathetic.
Some vague.
Some from women I hadn’t heard from in years.
Flynn issued an internal statement calling the incident “a misleading personal interaction inadvertently witnessed during a technical malfunction.”
A technical malfunction.
Apparently, adultery had become an IT problem.
At ten, Martin Cole arrived at my house.
He was seventy, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, carrying two leather cases.
My father had trusted him for thirty-six years.
Martin spread documents across my dining table.
“Your father’s original stake was thirty-one percent.”
I stopped breathing.
“Thirty-one?”
“The company expanded. There were reorganizations, new share classes, acquisitions. Gordon tried several times to dilute Richard.”
“Tried?”
“Your father wasn’t stupid.”
I smiled faintly.
“No.”
“He negotiated anti-dilution protection.”
“So what do I own now?”
“Approximately twenty-eight percent of the ordinary voting shares.”
Twenty-eight percent.
I sat back.
Flynn had once told me I couldn’t authorize a $600 repair to our heating system without discussing it with him.
Apparently, I owned more than a quarter of his empire.
“Does he know?”
“Gordon does.”
“Flynn’s father?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Why didn’t he tell Flynn?”
Martin folded his hands.
“That is a question you should ask Gordon.”
Something about his tone bothered me.
“There’s more.”
“There is always more.”
He slid another document toward me.
My father’s agreement included extensive information rights.
As his successor, I could request financial records.
Company spending.
Executive compensation.
Related-party transactions.
Discretionary accounts.
My eyes narrowed.
“The necklace.”
Martin nodded.
“If Flynn personally paid for it, it’s marital misconduct but not necessarily a corporate matter.”
“And if the company paid?”
“Then he’s got a very different problem.”
By noon, my formal records request had been delivered to Vance Global.
At 12:26, Flynn called.
I let it ring.
At 12:29, he called again.
At 12:31, again.
Then came a text.
