Chapter 6
I hadn’t spoken to Rebecca in two months.
That suddenly felt impossible.
For fifteen years, she had run the Carter-Naomi Foundation, the charity I created after my daughter died.
The foundation funded neonatal care, grieving-parent counseling, and emergency housing for mothers with critically ill babies.
Rebecca had been Naomi’s aunt.
She had held my daughter.
She had cried beside me at the funeral.
When my marriage to her brother collapsed after Naomi’s death, Rebecca stayed.
At least I believed she did.
I stared at the photograph.
Richard stood beside me in the boardroom.
“Who is she?”
“My former sister-in-law.”
“Does she work for Carter Retail?”
“No.”
“Then why is she at your archive center?”
I had no answer.
Our archive facility held historical contracts, store-level accounting records, old acquisition files, and physical backup documents.
It wasn’t glamorous.
It also wasn’t heavily monitored because most current data was digital.
The text had said the one place I never audited.
It was right.
I called security.
“Lock the archive center.”
Our director hesitated.
“Why?”
“Now.”
Within ten minutes, the facility was sealed.
Rebecca called me thirteen minutes later.
That was fast.
Too fast.
“Simone?”
Her voice sounded normal.
I hated that.
“Where are you?”
Pause.
“Home.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Were you at Carter Archive yesterday?”
Silence.
My chest tightened.
“Rebecca.”
“What is this about?”
“Answer me.”
She exhaled.
“Yes.”
My hands went cold.
“Why?”
“Foundation records.”
“The foundation has its own storage.”
“I know.”
“Then why were you there?”
She didn’t answer.
I looked at Richard.
He watched me carefully.
“Rebecca.”
Her voice dropped.
“Can we talk privately?”
“No.”
“Simone.”
“No more private conversations.”
Another pause.
Then she said something I wasn’t prepared for.
“Daniel asked me to go.”
My eyes closed.
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“Why?”
“He said there were old board minutes he needed.”
“You gave them to him?”
“I found them.”
“What else?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you know he was sharing information with North Coast?”
“What?”
Her shock sounded real.
I no longer trusted sound.
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Did you know Adrian Cole?”
Silence.
There it was again.
Every important question had silence before the answer.
“Yes.”
Richard looked up.
“How?”
“He donated to the foundation.”
My stomach turned.
“How much?”
“Several times.”
“How much total?”
“Maybe two hundred thousand.”
“Why didn’t I know?”
“You don’t review individual donors.”
“That doesn’t answer me.”
“He asked for anonymity.”
I started pacing.
“When did donations begin?”
“Last year.”
“Before Whitmore negotiations?”
“Yes.”
My body went cold.
“Did he ask you for anything?”
“No.”
“Rebecca.”
“He asked questions.”
“What questions?”
“About you.”
Richard’s expression hardened.
“What about me?”
Rebecca began crying.
“Your emotional state.”
I stopped moving.
“My what?”
“He said North Coast was considering partnering with Carter Retail on the foundation side.”
“That makes no sense.”
“I know that now.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing private.”
“Define private.”
She sobbed.
“That Naomi’s anniversary was difficult.”
I couldn’t breathe for a second.
“You told him about my daughter.”
“I thought he cared about the charity.”
“What else?”
“That you avoid major decisions around May.”
My hands shook.
May.
Naomi died in May.
Every year, I kept my schedule lighter.
Not because I was unstable.
Because grief has a calendar.
Adrian had turned that into data.
“You told him when I was emotionally vulnerable.”
Rebecca started crying harder.
“I didn’t think of it like that.”
“Nobody ever does.”
I ended the call.
Richard looked at me.
“Are you okay?”
“No.”
He nodded.
Good answer.
I was tired of people asking questions that demanded lies.
Security began auditing the archive.
They found missing visitor logs.
Copied boxes.
One removed file.
A twenty-year-old partnership agreement between Daniel and me.
I had almost forgotten it existed.
When Carter Retail began, Daniel received an informal profit participation arrangement before formal equity documents replaced it.
The old agreement contained vague language about founder rights.
Legally outdated.
Emotionally dangerous.
If someone wanted to convince Daniel that I had stolen ownership from him, that was the document they would use.
I understood Adrian’s strategy.
He had not created Daniel’s resentment.
He found it.
Fed it.
Validated it.
Then pointed it toward me.
Same with Victoria.
Same with Rebecca.
He didn’t build weakness.
He harvested it.
By afternoon, investigators confirmed Adrian had donated to the foundation through shell entities.
He had met Rebecca privately four times.
She admitted all four.
She claimed every meeting concerned fundraising.
Then they recovered an email.
Adrian:
Simone trusts grief more than people. That makes Naomi the only key she never changes.
I read it twice.
Then stopped.
Richard took the printout from me.
“He’s sick.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“He’s strategic.”
That was worse.
The investigation shifted.
This was no longer only corporate espionage.
Adrian had mapped relationships.
Resentments.
Weaknesses.
Personal histories.
He had used people closest to us.
I called Daniel’s attorney and requested a meeting.
Two hours later, Daniel entered a secure conference room.
He looked terrible.
I placed the old partnership agreement on the table.
His face changed.
“Where did you get that?”
“Archive.”
He looked away.
“Adrian showed it to you.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Six months ago.”
There it was.
Earlier than he admitted.
“Why didn’t you tell investigators?”
His eyes closed.
“I was ashamed.”
“Of what?”
“That I believed him.”
“What did he tell you?”
“That you intentionally replaced my founder rights with weaker equity.”
I stared at him.
“That is false.”
“I know now.”
“You signed the replacement documents.”
“I know.”
“You had your own lawyer.”
“I know.”
“Then why believe him?”
Daniel looked at me.
“Because part of me wanted to.”
That answer hurt more than the lie.
“At least that’s true.”
He nodded.
“He said you built your public image around being the sole founder.”
“I have corrected journalists for twenty years.”
“I know.”
“He told me you planned to remove me after the Bellamy sale.”
“I never did.”
“I know.”
“When did you know?”
Daniel swallowed.
“Yesterday.”
My anger rose.
“Yesterday?”
“When I read the documents again without him explaining them.”
I sat back.
Adrian had been narrating reality for everyone.
That was his real weapon.
Not stolen data.
Interpretation.
He gave people stories that matched their fears.
Then they acted as if the stories were facts.
Daniel leaned forward.
“There’s more.”
I waited.
“Adrian wanted me to call a special board meeting after the Whitmore acquisition.”
“Why?”
“To challenge you.”
“On what grounds?”
“Emotional instability.”
I almost laughed.
Instead, I felt sick.
He continued.
“He had a file.”
“What file?”
“Your medical leave after Naomi died.”
The room disappeared for a second.
I had taken four months off.
I had been treated for severe grief and depression.
Private.
Protected.
Human.
Adrian intended to weaponize it nineteen years later.
“Where did he get that?”
“I don’t know.”
Then I did.
Rebecca.
Not necessarily maliciously.
Maybe paperwork connected to the foundation.
Maybe insurance.
Maybe a conversation.
But the source had to be close.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Rebecca.
I know what he really wanted.
I called her immediately.
“What?”
She was crying.
“Naomi’s trust.”
I went still.
“What about it?”
“You created it after she died.”
“Yes.”
The Naomi Carter Memorial Trust held a substantial block of Carter Retail shares.
Its dividends funded the foundation.
I personally controlled voting rights.
Rebecca continued.
“Adrian asked me last month what happens to the shares if you die.”
Richard looked at me sharply.
“What did you tell him?”
“That they transfer to the foundation permanently.”
“Why would he care?”
“I didn’t know.”
Then she whispered:
“But yesterday, I found an unsigned amendment in my office.”
My heart pounded.
“What amendment?”
“It changes the successor trustee.”
“To who?”
She started crying harder.
“Daniel.”
I looked at him.
His face drained.
He whispered, “I never knew.”
Rebecca continued.
“And if Daniel can’t serve…”
I closed my eyes.
“Who?”
May you like
She answered.
“Adrian Cole.”
