Chapter 7 - THE PRICE OF A FAMILY NAME
Grant Reeves wasn't simply helping my parents obtain control of my company.
He was negotiating with the people who stood to profit from its sale.
That realization changed everything.
For fifteen years, Grant had sat beside me at financial meetings.
He knew our weak points.
Our acquisition plans.
Our debt obligations.
Our expansion schedule.
He knew which assets could be sold without immediately destroying Northline's operations.
And he knew exactly how much my company was worth.
I'd trusted him more than almost anyone.
Now I wondered whether he'd spent those fifteen years protecting my success or preparing to use it.
"Find out who owns Lantern Point," I told Mara.
"We're working on it."
"Not just the registered directors. The actual investors."
She nodded.
Then she hesitated.
"There's something else."
"What?"
"The press has picked up the story."
She turned her tablet toward me.
A financial news website had published a headline.
BILLIONAIRE NORTHLINE FOUNDER FACES QUESTIONS AFTER YACHT INCIDENT AND FAMILY CONCERNS OVER MENTAL HEALTH.
Below it was a photograph of me leaving the board meeting with my arm in a sling.
My family hadn't merely tried to murder me.
They were now using the injuries from that attempt to portray me as unstable.
I read the article.
An unnamed family representative described my behavior as increasingly unpredictable.
A company source expressed concern about my ability to continue leading Northline.
And Chloe had reportedly told acquaintances that I had endangered myself during an emotional confrontation.
I put the tablet down.
"Grant?"
"Possibly. The information appears coordinated."
I remembered Grandma Beatrice's advice.
Never let someone else decide your worth.
For years, I'd assumed she meant money.
Now I understood she meant something much larger.
My name.
My judgment.
My dignity.
Those were the things my family was trying to take.
That afternoon, I visited the abandoned Mercer shipyard with Aunt June.
The gates were rusted.
Weeds grew through cracks in the pavement.
Several warehouses stood empty beneath broken windows.
My grandfather had once employed nearly four hundred people here.
I remembered visiting as a boy.
The smell of engine oil.
The ringing of metal against metal.
Workers shouting greetings to my grandmother as she walked the docks.
Now the place looked forgotten.
June stopped beside an old wooden bench overlooking the water.
"Your grandmother sat here every Friday."
"Why?"
"She listened."
I looked at her.
"To whom?"
"The workers. Their wives. Their children. Anyone who needed help."
June smiled faintly.
"She said if you owned a business but couldn't look the people who worked for you in the eye, you had no business owning it."
I sat on the bench.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then an older man approached from the far warehouse.
He wore a faded denim jacket and walked with a cane.
"June?"
She stood.
"Raymond."
Raymond Porter had worked at the shipyard for thirty-six years.
His father had died following injuries from the old accident.
He had also served as an employee representative overseeing the relief fund.
June introduced us.
Raymond studied my face.
"You're Beatrice's grandson."
"Yes, sir."
He nodded slowly.
"Got her eyes."
Then his expression hardened.
"Wish you'd gotten her judgment."
I accepted that without argument.
"I deserve that."
He pointed his cane toward the warehouses.
"Your grandmother promised us those buildings would never be used to cheat the men who worked here."
"I know."
"No, son. You don't."
He reached into his jacket and removed a folded letter.
It was addressed to his late wife.
A payment notice from the relief fund.
Dated sixteen years earlier.
"The money never arrived," he said.
"My wife spent the last five years of her life worrying about hospital bills."
His voice trembled.
"Your father told me the fund had run out."
I swallowed.
"I'm sorry."
Raymond looked at me for a long moment.
"Sorry doesn't pay a doctor's bill."
"No," I admitted. "It doesn't."
I stood.
"But I intend to make this right."
He shook his head.
"I've heard Mercers say that before."
Then he walked away.
I watched him disappear into the warehouse.
June touched my arm.
"He's angry because he remembers what this family promised."
"So do I."
As we prepared to leave, a black sedan entered through the gates.
My father stepped out.
He looked older than he had two nights earlier.
His expensive coat hung loosely from his shoulders.
"Elias."
I remained beside the bench.
"What are you doing here?"
He glanced at June.
For a moment, his face showed something complicated.
Shame.
Anger.
Perhaps fear.
"June," he said quietly.
"Richard."
Neither moved toward the other.
My father looked back at me.
"I need you to stop digging."
I almost laughed.
"You tried to take my company, and now you're asking me to stop investigating?"
"You're going to destroy everything."
"No, Dad. I'm discovering what you already destroyed."
His eyes flashed.
"You think I wanted any of this?"
I stared at him.
"You stood on that yacht."
He looked away.
"You think I wanted to watch my own son drown?"
"Then why didn't you help me?"
For a long moment, he said nothing.
The wind moved through the abandoned cranes.
Finally, he whispered, "Because your mother told me if I interfered, we'd lose the only chance we had left."
I felt something inside me break.
"You chose money over your son."
"I chose what I thought would save the family."
"You chose yourself."
He reached into his coat and removed an old photograph.
It showed Grant Reeves standing outside Northline's first office, smiling beside me.
My father tapped Grant's face.
"I introduced you to him because I needed someone who could keep the old accounting problems from reaching your company."
I stared at him.
"You knew he was hiding the theft?"
"At first, I thought he could help us repay it."
"And later?"
My father's eyes filled with tears.
"Later, he made sure we could never leave."
I looked at the photograph.
Then at the man who had raised me.
He wasn't asking forgiveness.
He was asking me to rescue him from consequences he'd helped create.
Before I could answer, he spoke again.
"Grant isn't trying to save our family anymore, Elias."
May you like
His voice dropped.
"He's trying to own what you built."
