Chapter 2 - The First Fracture
By 3:00 PM, the storm broke across the social media landscape.
I was sitting in the quiet car of the Acela Express, watching the grey waters of the Connecticut coastline blur past the window, when my secondary phone began to ring off the hook. This was the phone only my father, my legal team, and our key operations officers had the number to.
It was Marcus Vance—Ethan’s father, and a senior board member of Salt & Sage.
"Clare," Marcus’s voice boomed through the receiver, heavy with the artificial authority of a man who had spent forty years in corporate litigation. "What the hell is going on down there? I’m standing in the lobby of the Hawthorne Hotel, two hundred people are eating cold appetizers, and Ethan is claiming you’ve suffered a psychotic break!"
"Hello, Marcus," I said calmly, taking a sip of sparkling water. "I haven't suffered a break. I've simply executed a long-overdue corporate restructuring."
"Don't play word games with me, girl!" he snapped. "Ethan told me you refused to walk down the aisle because of some ridiculous misunderstanding about a car! Do you have any idea how much this wedding cost my family?"
"Your son gave my custom gown and my seat in the bridal car to Vanessa Vance—excuse me, Vanessa Miller," I corrected myself. "He then instructed me to enter my own wedding through the service corridor so as not to disrupt her social media content. If you have questions about financial waste, I suggest you ask him why he spent seventy-five thousand dollars of company funds on her personal travel expenses last month."
There was a long pause on the line. Marcus was a ruthless businessman, but he wasn't stupid. He knew about Ethan's blind spot for Vanessa, even if he had previously chosen to ignore it as long as the revenues kept growing thirty percent quarter-over-quarter.
"Is this true?" Marcus asked, his tone dropping an octave.
"Check the public Instagram account of Miss Miller," I said smoothly. "She has already posted a reel of herself sitting in my limousine, wearing my mother's heirloom earrings, with your son kissing her forehead. The caption calls it 'The real fairy tale.' The investors are going to love the optics when the press picks it up."
I heard Marcus draw in a sharp, jagged breath. "Clare... listen to me. Whatever personal grievances you have with Ethan, keep them separate from the business. We have the Q4 distribution deal with Target signing on Monday. That deal is worth eighty million dollars. If you pull anything with the IP right now—"
"The IP licensing agreement was officially revoked at 1:00 PM today, Marcus," I interrupted. "In precisely forty-five minutes, the automated distribution centers will halt operations. The proprietary enzyme formulations are locked behind my master key. Salt & Sage currently has forty-eight hours of inventory left in its fulfillment centers. After that, you are delivering flavored water to your clients."
"You wouldn't," Marcus breathed, real panic finally seeping into his voice. "That would ruin you too! You own forty percent of the common stock!"
"I don't care about the stock, Marcus," I said, looking at my reflection in the train window. "I built the product. I can build another one tomorrow. But Ethan? Ethan doesn't even know the chemical compound of the stabilizer we use in the garlic truffle spread. He thinks it comes from a bucket."
I hung up before he could respond.
Two minutes later, my personal phone blew up with texts from Luke, Ethan’s cousin who had called me "safe rebound" in the group chat.
Luke: Clare, please call me. Ethan is losing his mind. He’s screaming at the hotel manager. The board wants an emergency call in thirty minutes. You need to fix this.
I didn't reply. Instead, I opened my personal email and drafted a formal memo to the board of directors, attaching the screenshots of the group chat, the security footage I had requested from the Hawthorne Hotel's valets, and the automated revocation notice from Claremont Holdings.
May you like
I hit Send to All.
The war had officially begun.
