I walked quietly down the long hallway, my socks sliding silently over the polished hardwood floors. I stopped outside my father’s office. The heavy oak door was slightly ajar.
“I don’t care about the optics, David!” my father’s voice barked through the crack. “I want a restraining order filed by noon. I want her termination finalized. If the board pushes back, remind them who funded the new science wing.”
A pause. Then, my father’s voice dropped, losing its aggressive edge.
“I know it’s her, David. Yes, Robert Shaw’s wife. I don’t know how she found out Chloe was there. We sealed the records. But she knows, and she’s trying to make a statement. She wants to draw me out.”
I held my breath, pressing my back against the wall.
Robert Shaw.
The name meant nothing to me. But the way my father said it—with a mixture of guilt and exhaustion—told me everything I needed to know. This wasn't about a teacher snapping under pressure. This was a calculated act of revenge for something my father had done to a man named Robert Shaw.
I turned away from the door, my mind racing. If I asked my father, he would shut me down. He would tell me it was business, that it was in the past, and that I didn't need to worry about it. He would buy my silence with a new car or a trip to Europe, just like he always did when things got complicated.
But I didn't want a car. I wanted to know why I had been humiliated in front of everyone I knew. I wanted to know why I was the target.
I found Marcus in the foyer. He looked up from his tablet as I approached.
“You shouldn’t be out of bed, Miss Vance,” he said, his tone respectful but firm.
“I’m not sick, Marcus. I’m just suspended by my own father.” I crossed my arms, looking up at him. “Who is Robert Shaw?”
Marcus’s expression didn’t change. Not a muscle twitched. “I told you last night, Chloe. That is a conversation for your father.”
“My father is currently yelling at his lawyers to bury the woman,” I said, taking a step closer. “He’s not going to tell me anything. But you know. You recognized her maiden name. You knew who she was before he even said it.”
Marcus let out a slow, measured breath. He locked the screen of his tablet and tucked it under his arm. “Ten years ago, your father acquired a logistics company called Shaw Enterprises. The CEO was Robert Shaw. The acquisition was... aggressive. Robert lost everything. His company, his reputation, his wealth.”
“And Evelyn Harrington is his wife?” I asked, my heart sinking.
“Widow,” Marcus corrected quietly. “Robert Shaw took his own life six months after the acquisition was finalized. Evelyn blamed your father.”
The floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet. I grabbed the edge of the marble console table to steady myself. A widow. The woman who had attacked me, who had looked at me with such raw, unfiltered hatred, was punishing me for the death of her husband.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Why let me go to that school if she was there?”
“She changed her name to Harrington,” Marcus said. “She dropped off the grid, got a teaching degree, and moved to this district five years ago. We vet your teachers, Chloe, but we don’t run deep-background corporate espionage checks on public school band directors unless there’s a red flag. She never raised one. She bided her time.”
I shook my head, trying to process the sheer weight of it all. “So what does she want? Money? Does she want a settlement?”
“People like Evelyn Shaw don’t want money,” Marcus said grimly. “They want blood. They want the world to see the man who ruined them suffer. The incident in the parking lot wasn't a shakedown. It was a declaration of war. She wanted the video out there. She wanted the press to start asking questions.”
I looked toward the front door. Through the thick glass panes, I could see the gate at the end of the driveway. News vans were already starting to gather on the shoulder of the road, their satellite dishes raised like weapons.
She had used me as bait. She had humiliated me publicly so my father would react exactly the way he was reacting now—with overwhelming force, with lawyers and bodyguards. She was painting him as the corporate monster she believed him to be, and she was using the video of the crying teenager and the black SUVs to prove it.
And my father was playing right into her hands.
“I need my clarinet,” I said suddenly.
Marcus blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift in topic. “Excuse me?”