“Decoys?”
“He said activists might try to board under your name to embarrass the company before the investor announcement.”
Marcus stared.
Eleanor’s face changed.
“What investor announcement?” she asked.
Rick looked at her, confused. “The sale.”
There are silences that are empty.
This one was full of knives.
Marcus turned slowly to Eleanor. “What sale?”
Eleanor’s lips parted. “There is no sale.”
Rick looked between them. “He said the board had approved—”
“The board has not approved anything,” Eleanor said.
Rick’s phone buzzed again.
Security reached for it this time.
Rick resisted for half a second. Then let go.
The officer handed the phone to Eleanor.
She read the message.
Her face hardened.
Marcus held out his hand.
Eleanor gave it to him.
The screen showed three messages from an unknown number.
Make them uncomfortable.
Get them off the jet before cameras.
If Marcus stays, everything is over.
Marcus stared at the words until they blurred.
Then another message arrived.
You idiot. He owns it.
Rick closed his eyes.
The humiliation in the cabin had not been the whole trap. It had been the fuse.
Eleanor looked at Marcus. “We need legal. Now.”
But Marcus was looking at the hangar.
At the tinted glass office above it.
A shadow moved behind the blinds.
Celeste saw Marcus see it.
“Marcus,” she called.
He turned.
She shook her head slightly.
Don’t.
But the wound was already open.
He walked toward the hangar.
Security moved with him. Eleanor followed. Rick stood frozen near the fuel truck, stripped of command, stripped of certainty, suddenly small beneath the giant wings around him.
Inside the hangar, the air was cooler and smelled of oil, metal, and coffee. Mechanics went silent as Marcus crossed the polished concrete. Above them, behind glass, the executive office looked down over the fleet like a watchtower.
Marcus climbed the stairs.
Each step sounded like a memory.
Julian at twelve, stealing Marcus’s bicycle and pretending he had borrowed it. Julian at twenty-three, drunk at their father’s funeral, telling Marcus he was lucky because grief looked better on responsible people. Julian at thirty-nine, smiling across a boardroom table while Marcus signed the documents that saved the company and cut Julian out.
At the top of the stairs, Marcus pushed open the office door.
Julian Ellison sat behind Eleanor’s desk with his feet on the floor and a paper cup of coffee in his hand.
He looked older than Marcus remembered. Still handsome, but softened at the edges. His beard was threaded with gray. His suit was expensive and wrinkled. His smile arrived late.
“Marcus,” Julian said. “Brother.”
Security stepped in behind Marcus.
Julian looked at them and sighed. “Dramatic.”