PART 18 – The Boardroom Was Never Mine to Control

Nathan called on Monday with an update that changed the direction of the conversation.

“Prescott Global has become part of the discussion,” he said.

I stopped sorting the mail.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I want you to understand what has happened without assuming that every rumor you hear is accurate.”

I sat down.

“Tell me.”

“Your message in the company-wide Slack channel was seen by a substantial number of employees. It has also reached people outside the group who originally read it.”

“I know.”

“Some employees have apparently discussed the situation with management. There are questions about the relationship between Aaron and Jasmine, but I don't have independent evidence about every detail being circulated.”

I rubbed my thumb against the edge of the envelope in my hand.

“I never claimed to know everything about their relationship.”

“No. Your message expressed your own position. That distinction matters.”

I remembered standing in the lobby with Aaron's suitcases beside me.

At the time, I had felt strangely calm.

Now I wondered how many people had watched that moment from behind the glass doors or heard about it from someone who had been there.

I had not planned to become a subject of office conversation.

But I had also stopped believing it was my responsibility to protect Aaron from every consequence of his behavior.

“Has he said anything publicly?” I asked.

“Not that I can confirm.”

I set the envelope aside.

“What should I do?”

“Nothing about the company's internal affairs. Your divorce is our concern. If anyone asks you to make a statement or provide information in a formal process, we will discuss it first.”

“I don't want to interfere with his company.”

“Then don't. You can protect your own interests without trying to manage his.”

That was a distinction I needed to hear.

For three years, I had been close enough to Aaron's professional life to understand how much he valued control.

I had attended dinners where people praised his judgment.

I had watched him speak about difficult negotiations as if every person in the room were a piece on a board he had already studied.

I had smiled when he told stories about business decisions I had never been asked to understand.

Yet I had never been part of Prescott Global's management.

I had no role there.

I did not want one now.

After I hung up, I opened the news app on my phone, then closed it without searching Aaron's name.

If something important needed my attention, Nathan would tell me.

I did not need to spend my day trying to discover what strangers thought of my marriage.

That afternoon, my father asked whether I wanted to help him repair a loose hinge on the garden gate.

I followed him outside.

He handed me a screwdriver and pointed to the metal plate.

“Hold it steady while I tighten this.”

I crouched beside him.

The work was simple. The hinge had loosened over time, and the gate no longer closed properly.

My father adjusted the screws while I held the plate in place.

When he finished, he pushed the gate open and shut twice.

“There,” he said.

“It works.”

“It should. We fixed what was loose.”

I looked at the hinge.

For some reason, the words stayed with me.

Not every damaged thing could be repaired.

Not every relationship should be.

But it was possible to identify a problem without pretending it had never existed.

Later that evening, my mother found me at the kitchen table reading the settlement proposal Nathan had prepared.

“You've read that page four times,” she said.

“I keep thinking I missed something.”

“Have you?”

“Not that I can see.”

“Then perhaps you're reading it because you're nervous.”

I gave a tired laugh.

“That sounds possible.”

She sat down beside me.

“Are you afraid of what Aaron will say?”

I considered the question.

“I’m afraid he'll make this harder than it needs to be.”

“That is different from being afraid of him.”

I looked at her.

She was right.

I was afraid of delay, conflict, legal bills, and the possibility that a process I wanted to finish cleanly would become a long argument.

I was afraid of being pulled back into the same exhausting cycle.

But I was no longer afraid that I would have to stay married simply because Aaron wanted me to.

“I don't want a fight,” I said.

“Then don't start one. But don't confuse peace with surrender.”

I folded the page and placed it back in the folder.

The next morning, Nathan told me that Michael Reeves, Prescott Global's chief operating officer, had become involved in conversations about the situation.

He did not offer details he could not verify.

He simply explained that the company was addressing its own internal concerns separately from the divorce.

I remembered Michael from company dinners.

He was usually polite, reserved, and difficult to distract from a conversation about work.

He had once spent half an evening explaining a logistics problem to a group of investors while Aaron moved between tables, collecting compliments.

I had liked Michael because he listened when people spoke.

But I had never considered him a friend.

“Does this affect my settlement?” I asked.

“Not directly based on what we know,” Nathan said. “The company's internal decisions are separate. We should keep them separate.”

“That's what I want.”

“Then that is where we will keep them.”

For the rest of the day, I tried to leave the subject alone.

I went for a walk.

I called a friend who had not asked me to explain myself.

I helped my mother prepare dinner and listened while my father complained about a neighbor who kept parking too close to the driveway.

Ordinary life continued around the edges of the divorce.

I was beginning to understand that it would not wait for me to finish grieving.

The next afternoon, my phone rang from an unfamiliar number.

I let it go to voicemail.

A few minutes later, a message appeared.

It was from someone at Prescott Global's executive office asking whether I would be willing to speak with a representative about the company-wide message.

I read it twice.

Then I forwarded it to Nathan.

He called me shortly afterward.

“Don't respond yet,” he said. “I'll review the request and advise you.”

“I wasn't going to.”

“Good. You are not required to become the company's spokesperson for your own marriage.”

I leaned back in my chair.

“I wish someone had told me that three years ago.”

Nathan was quiet for a moment.

“Claire, you weren't responsible for making every part of Aaron's life comfortable.”

I looked toward the window.

“I know.”

This time, the words felt more solid.

That evening, Aaron called twice.

I did not answer either call.

I didn't turn the phone off.

I simply left it on the table and continued helping my mother put clean dishes away.

When I returned to the kitchen, the screen had gone dark.

His name was no longer there.

I went upstairs and changed into comfortable clothes.

Before bed, I checked the folder once to make sure Nathan had everything he needed for the meeting.

Then I put it away.

I was willing to answer legitimate questions.

I was willing to negotiate fairly.

I was willing to accept that other people might have opinions about what had happened.

But I was not willing to turn my private life into a public argument just because Aaron had built his life around being the person who controlled the room.

The boardroom belonged to Prescott Global.

The divorce belonged to us.

And my future belonged to me.