Chapter 3: What Richard Knew
The name was Harlan Voss.
Marcus knew that name.
Everyone in his industry knew that name.
Harlan Voss didn't sit on boards.
He didn't attend galas.
He didn't need to.
He owned the people who did.
Richard kept his voice low, but the ballroom had gone so quiet that Marcus caught every word.
"It's handled," Richard said into the phone.
"No.
He has video." A pause.
"I understand.
I'll call you when we leave."
He ended the call and turned back.
Not to Diane.
To Marcus.
"Walk with me," Richard said.
"I'm not going anywhere with you."
"Then stay here." Richard glanced at Lily.
"And let your daughter hear what I have to say."
Marcus looked down at Lily.
Her eyes were still wet, her small fingers curled into his jacket lapel.
He kissed the top of her head.
"Go find Mrs.
Okafor," he said quietly.
"She's by the coat check.
Tell her Daddy said to get you some water."
Lily hesitated.
"Are you okay, Daddy?"
"I'm fine, sweetheart.
Go ahead."
He watched her cross the room, then turned back to Richard Ashford.
"Talk," Marcus said.
Richard led him two steps toward the edge of the room, away from the nearest cluster of guests.
Diane had not moved.
She stood where she was, champagne glass still in her hand, watching her husband the way a person watches a surgeon — hoping, but not certain.
"The Whitmore contract," Richard said.
"You think you're competing for it."
"I am competing for it."
"No." Richard's voice was flat.
"You were never going to win it.
That was decided four months ago.
Harlan Voss has a preferred firm.
Your name was added to the shortlist to satisfy the appearance of a fair process."
Marcus felt something cold move through him.
"You're telling me the bid was rigged."
"I'm telling you the outcome was predetermined.
There's a difference."
"There isn't."
Richard didn't argue that.
"What I'm telling you is that the video changes nothing about the contract.
But it changes other things.
Things my wife doesn't fully understand she's put at risk."
"Your wife put her hands on my seven-year-old daughter."
"I know what she did." Something crossed Richard's face — not guilt, not quite.
Closer to exhaustion.
"I saw the video the same as everyone else."
"Then why are you standing here talking to me instead of dealing with her?"
"Because," Richard said, "Harlan Voss just told me to make sure that video disappears before morning.
And I'm standing here telling you that instead of doing it." He paused.
"Make of that what you will."
Marcus studied him.
Richard Ashford was sixty-three years old, silver-haired, the kind of man who had spent four decades being the most composed person in any room.
Right now he looked like a man who had just decided something and wasn't sure yet if it would cost him everything.
"Why?" Marcus asked.
"Because she pushed a child." Richard said it simply.
No drama in it.
Just a fact he had apparently been sitting with for the past ten minutes.
"And I'm tired."
Marcus's phone buzzed in his hand.
He looked down.
The message was from an unknown number.
May you like
Four words:
*Send the video now.*
