Chapter 3 - THE SIGNATURE
I did not open the door immediately.
That was enough to make Aaron knock again.
"I know you're in there."
I ended the call with Rebecca and placed my phone face down on the desk.
Then I walked to the door.
Aaron stood outside holding a black leather folder.
Jasmine stood behind him.
I looked from him to her.
"I thought you wanted to speak privately."
Aaron stepped inside without waiting to be invited.
"Jasmine prepared the restructuring package."
"Then she can send it to my lawyer."
Jasmine followed him into my suite.
"Mrs. Prescott, it's mostly housekeeping."
I closed the door.
"That's reassuring."
Her smile returned.
"I didn't mean to overstep."
"You seem to say that often."
Aaron turned sharply.
"Enough."
He walked into the study and set the folder on the desk.
"Sit down."
I remained standing.
His eyes narrowed.
"Alyssa."
"I'm comfortable here."
For a second, no one spoke.
Jasmine moved to the chair beside Aaron, naturally taking the position of someone accustomed to being included.
I saw what she was doing.
So did he.
He allowed it.
"Prescott Systems is creating a new international holding structure," Aaron said.
"Why?"
"Tax efficiency."
"Which jurisdiction?"
He paused.
Jasmine answered.
"Ireland, primarily."
I looked at her.
"Primarily?"
"There are several subsidiaries."
"How many?"
Another pause.
"Seven."
Aaron's patience broke first.
"This is exactly why I didn't want to turn it into a legal seminar."
"You're asking for my signature."
"On a spousal consent."
"Then I get to know what I'm consenting to."
He opened the folder and pushed a document toward me.
A yellow tab marked my signature line.
I did not touch the pen.
Instead, I read the first page.
The structure was dense by design.
Prescott Systems would transfer certain intellectual property, licensing rights, and international revenue contracts to a new holding company called PS Global Ventures.
The board would retain oversight.
Aaron would serve as executive chairman.
And buried on page thirty-two, according to the index, there was a schedule of outside advisory entities.
I flipped to it.
Vale Strategic Consulting LLC was listed.
Jasmine's face changed before she could stop it.
I tapped the name.
"What is this?"
"An outside vendor," Aaron said.
"Who owns it?"
"Why does that matter?"
"Because it has Jasmine's last name."
He sighed.
"Vale is not exactly an unusual name."
I looked at Jasmine.
"Is it yours?"
She tilted her head.
"The company is connected to an investment vehicle I advise."
"That wasn't my question."
"I don't directly own it."
"Do you indirectly own it?"
Aaron slapped his palm against the desk.
"Alyssa."
I turned to him.
"What?"
"This is a corporate document, not an interrogation."
"Then answer a corporate question."
His eyes hardened.
I had seen that look in boardrooms.
It usually appeared thirty seconds before someone backed down.
I did not.
Jasmine leaned forward.
"Mrs. Prescott, the entity's ownership isn't relevant to your consent."
"Then why hide it?"
Her smile disappeared.
Aaron stood.
"You're not a lawyer."
"That's why I'm sending it to one."
I closed the folder.
"Leave it here."
He reached for it immediately.
"No."
That single motion told me more than the entire presentation.
I kept one hand on the cover.
He kept the other.
For several seconds, we stood on opposite sides of the desk holding the same folder.
Once, we had built things together.
Now we were fighting over the evidence of what he had built without me.
"Why can't I keep a copy?" I asked.
"Because it's confidential."
"I'm your wife."
"Exactly."
The word came out too quickly.
I felt something cold settle in my chest.
"Exactly what?"
He released the folder.
"You're not an officer of the company."
"I used to be."
"And you chose to step away."
"After you asked me to."
Jasmine looked down.
She had heard that story before, apparently.
Aaron rubbed his temple.
"We agreed it was better for the marriage."
"No."
My voice stayed calm.
"You said investors didn't like the appearance of your wife having influence over strategy."
"That was true."
"Then six months later you hired Jasmine to do the work I had been doing for free."
He looked toward the window.
"This isn't productive."
"It is for me."
I opened the document again.
Then I flipped to the spousal consent page.
My initials appeared in the lower corner.
A.P.
Small.
Neat.
Almost correct.
Almost.
I ran my finger over them.
"Who initialed this?"
Aaron stopped moving.
Jasmine's face went blank.
"What?" he asked.
I held up the page.
"These aren't mine."
He looked at them for less than a second.
"Probably a clerical mark."
"My initials are a clerical mark?"
"No one is claiming it's your signature."
"Then why is it on my consent page?"
Jasmine stood.
"I can ask legal."
I turned toward her.
"You prepared the package."
"With counsel."
"Then ask yourself."
Her cheeks colored.
Aaron stepped between us.
"Stop attacking her."
There it was again.
Automatic.
Immediate.
The defense he no longer offered me came effortlessly when Jasmine needed it.
I looked at my husband and realized that the pain had changed shape.
It was no longer the pain of wondering whether he loved someone else.
It was the anger of watching him protect someone who might be helping him forge my consent.
"Take the document," I said.
He blinked.
"What?"
"I'm not signing it."
"Alyssa, we have a board vote tomorrow morning."
"Then postpone it."
"I can't."
"Then vote without my consent."
His expression sharpened.
"We need your consent."
The room went silent.
He had finally said the part he should not have said.
I leaned against the desk.
"Why?"
Jasmine answered too quickly.
"Because of marital property considerations."
"I asked Aaron."
He looked at me.
"It's procedural."
"Then explain the procedure."
"You wouldn't understand it."
I smiled.
That was a mistake.
His mistake.
For years, Aaron had relied on one story more than any other.
He was the genius.
I was the wife.
He handled the difficult things.
I handled dinners, charity boards, family appearances, and the emotional labor required to make a brilliant man feel safe enough to take risks.
He had forgotten that before I became his wife, I graduated near the top of my class in economics.
He had forgotten that I built the first five-year cash-flow model that kept his company alive.
He had forgotten because forgetting me had become convenient.
"Try me," I said.
His phone rang.
He looked at the screen and cursed under his breath.
"I have to take this."
Jasmine reached for the folder.
I placed my hand over it.
"Leave a copy."
"We can't."
"Then photograph it."
Her expression changed.
"Absolutely not."
I looked at Aaron.
"Do you hear this?"
He was already answering the call.
"Daniel, what happened?"
His face changed almost immediately.
He turned away.
"No, don't send anything yet."
A pause.
"I said don't send it."
Another pause.
"Who else knows?"
He walked toward the balcony doors.
I watched him.
Jasmine watched him too.
For the first time, she looked nervous.
Aaron ended the call.
"We need to go."
Jasmine grabbed the folder.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
"Aaron."
"Now."
He looked at me before leaving.
"Eight a.m. tomorrow. Boardroom. Be there."
"Why?"
"Because if you refuse to sign, we need to document it."
"Document whatever you like."
His mouth tightened.
"You think this is a game."
"No."
I looked directly at him.
"I think you do."
He left.
Jasmine followed.
But as she passed me, something slipped from the folder and landed near the leg of the desk.
Neither of them noticed.
I waited until the suite door closed.
Then I bent down.
It was a single printed page.
At the top were the words CONFIDENTIAL - PROPOSED POST-TRANSACTION OWNERSHIP.
I read the names.
Aaron Prescott.
Institutional investors.
Employee pool.
Vale Strategic Holdings.
Whitmore Family Trust.
Next to my trust's name was a number that made my blood go cold.
Current voting rights: 17.8%.
Post-transaction voting rights: 1.2%.
They were not asking me to approve a restructuring.
They were asking me to approve my own disappearance.
At the bottom of the page, beneath the ownership chart, someone had typed a note.
Obtain A.P. consent before independent counsel reviews legacy agreement.
I took a photograph.
Then another.
Then I sent both to Rebecca.
Her call came less than thirty seconds later.
"Where did you get this?"
"It fell out of Aaron's folder."
"Do not give it back."
"Why?"
"Because this isn't housekeeping."
Her voice was suddenly hard.
"Alyssa, they know about Clause 14."
May you like
I looked toward the closed door.
"And they're trying to erase it before you use it."
