Chapter 3 - THE MEETING AT NINE
I arrived at the hospital shortly after three in the morning.
Irene was awake.
The doctor assured me that she and the pregnancy were stable, but Irene needed monitoring and rest.
I sat beside her without speaking for several seconds.
There were a thousand things I wanted to say.
Only one mattered.
“I’m sorry I didn’t see it.”
Irene turned her face toward me.
“You weren’t supposed to.”
“What does that mean?”
“They made sure you wouldn’t.”
She told me Margaret had started slowly.
A criticism about Irene’s clothes.
A comment about how she managed our house.
A reminder that Wentworth women were expected to behave a certain way.
Whenever I was home, Margaret became affectionate.
She brought Irene tea.
She asked about doctor appointments.
She even bought baby clothes.
The moment I left town, everything changed.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Irene looked down at her hands.
“I tried.”
My stomach dropped.
“When?”
“Three months ago.”
She reminded me of a call during a conference in Seattle.
She had told me my mother was making her uncomfortable.
I remembered it immediately.
I had laughed.
Not at Irene.
At the idea that Margaret could be threatening.
I had said, “Mom can be intense, but she means well.”
The memory made me feel sick.
“You tried again?”
“Twice.”
I covered my face.
Irene reached for my hand.
“I knew you loved me.”
“That makes it worse.”
“No.”
Her voice became firmer.
“It means you were manipulated too.”
I looked at her.
“What was supposed to happen at nine?”
Irene’s expression changed.
“That’s what I was trying to prove.”
She told me she had overheard Carla and Margaret discussing the succession certificate.
Margaret had apparently convinced two board members that I intended to restructure the company.
Irene later found draft resolutions hidden inside Margaret’s guest room.
The resolutions would temporarily place voting authority over a major family trust into Margaret’s hands.
Temporary on paper.
Potentially permanent in practice.
“Why?”
I asked.
“Money?”
Irene shook her head.
“Control.”
That answer made sense.
My mother had never spent recklessly.
She did not care about yachts or private jets.
She cared about obedience.
My father had controlled Wentworth Holdings for decades.
After he died, the controlling shares passed to me.
Margaret received money, property, and a generous trust.
But not control.
She had never forgiven him for that.
“She needs the certificate from the safe,” Irene said.
“And several originals from your study.”
“The things in Carla’s suitcase.”
“Yes.”
My phone buzzed.
Daniel again.
“Austin, I just received the proposed board packet.”
“Send it.”
A few seconds later, thirty-two pages appeared in my email.
I opened the final document.
At the bottom was my name.
Austin Wentworth.
Below it was a signature.
It looked almost perfect.
Almost.
Irene saw my expression.
“What?”
“They forged my signature.”
She closed her eyes.
I called Daniel.
“Cancel the meeting.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Three directors are insisting it proceed.”
“Then move it.”
“To when?”
I looked at Irene.
“Nine o’clock.”
Daniel was confused.
“That’s when it’s already scheduled.”
“I know.”
May you like
I stood.
“Tell everyone I’ll be there.”
