One, two, three. He got to 41 before Alexander Whitmore murmured something to the director beside him. Marcus couldn't hear it, but he could read the shape of "Let me check on her. She's my sister." And rose and buttoned his jacket and walked out of the boardroom after her with an expression of tender concern that made Marcus want to put his fist through the monitor.
Marcus switched cameras. Now he was watching the small unused conference room where Claire sat alone at the end of a long table, her back to the door, her shoulders rising and falling. She'd done it. She'd gotten him to follow.
Everything from here rode on the next few minutes, and there was nothing Marcus could do but watch and wait and keep his hand on the door of his own room in case it went wrong. The conference room door opened. Alexander stepped in. He closed it behind him.
Closed it, Marcus noted, and Marcus's whole body went tight because a man who closes the door is a man who thinks he's about to say something he doesn't want overheard. "Claire," Alexander said. His voice came through the microphones, warm and soft, full of concern. "Claire, my god, are you all right?" Claire didn't turn around.
"I'm fine, Alex. I just need a minute." "You're not fine. I watched you in there. He moved closer, came around the table so he could see her face, and his expression was a masterpiece of brotherly worry.
That wasn't fine. That was Claire, that was like the old days, like after Dad. You haven't looked like that in years. He crouched beside her chair, put a hand on her arm, and Marcus watching, saw Claire's whole body flinch at the touch, and force itself still.
Talk to me. What's happening to you? And Marcus watched Claire Whitmore do the hardest piece of acting of her life. He watched her let her face crumple.
He watched her look at her brother, the man who tried to destroy her, whose touch she could barely stand, and let her eyes fill, and say in a small broken voice, "I don't know, Alex. I don't know what's happening to me. It's It's been getting worse. The attacks.
I can't Some nights I can't breathe. I fall apart, and I keep thinking, what if it happens in front of them? What if it happens in front of the board?" A tear spilled over. "What if I'm not What if I can't do this anymore?" Marcus in the control room held his breath.
Because this was the moment. This was where it turned. Either Alexander Whitmore was too careful to take the bait, in which case they had nothing, or he was exactly the man Marcus believed him to be, and he couldn't help himself, and he stepped over the edge. For a long moment, Alexander said nothing.
He crouched beside his sister with his hand on her arm, and his face full of concern. And Marcus watched him, and Marcus saw the exact instant the concern flickered. Saw it drop, just for a heartbeat. Saw the pleasant mask slip, and something else look out from behind his eyes, something that had been starving for 11 years, and finally smelled the meal.
And then, very quietly, Alexander Whitmore smiled. "You can't," he said softly. "That's the thing, Claire. You can't do this anymore.
I think we both know that. Claire went very still. What? Look at you.
Alexander's voice was still gentle, still warm, and that was the horror of it. He could say these things and keep his voice kind. You're coming apart. You have been for months, and I've watched it, and I've thought someone has to protect her.
Someone has to protect the company because you're not well, Claire. You haven't been well since Dad died and put all of this on your shoulders, shoulders that were never strong enough for it. He tilted his head. He should have given it to me.
You know that, don't you? Somewhere in there, under all the He gestured at her, at her tears. Under all this, you know he made a mistake. He looked at his sick, fragile daughter and his son, and he chose wrong, and he ruined both our lives doing it.
Alex, Claire whispered. What are you saying? I'm saying I'm going to help you. Alexander said, and now the smile was full and warm and terrible.
I'm saying that after today, after the board watches what I just watched, nobody's going to be able to pretend anymore. They'll see what I've seen, that Claire Whitmore is not well, that she can't be trusted with Dad's company, and they'll do the kind necessary thing. They'll ask you to step down for your own health. He squeezed her arm.
And I'll be there for you, sis. I'll take the weight off you finally. I'll run things, and you can go somewhere quiet and get the help you need. It's what's best.
It's what's always been best. Marcus in the control room was gripping the edge of the desk hard enough to hurt. Almost. Almost.
Say it. Say the one thing. Claire's voice, when it came, was small and shaking. You've been Alex the way you're talking.
It's almost like you like you knew this would happen. Like you wanted it. And Alexander Whitmore, drunk on 11 years of waiting, standing over his sister in the moment he'd dreamed of, looked at her tear-streaked face and could not resist the last inch. Of course I wanted it.
He said softly. Do you have any idea how long I've waited? I've sat at your table for 11 years and watched you take what was mine and I have waited. His voice dropped to something almost tender, almost loving, which made it worse.
Friday night was supposed to be the end of it, you know, the maintenance man. That was going to be so clean. You found an estate, some nobody standing over you, the police, the scandal, the board would have moved that week. But you had to pull yourself together, didn't you?
You had to be strong at exactly the wrong moment. He shook his head almost admiring. So we do it the slow way instead. Today in front of everyone.
It doesn't matter that Friday failed, Claire. It was always going to end here. It was always going to end with me in Dad's chair and you gone. He smiled.
I just wish you'd stop fighting it. It's undignified. In the control room, Marcus Bennett closed his eyes for 1 second. Got you.
Every word on six microphones. Friday night was supposed to be the end of it, the maintenance man. That was going to be so clean. A confession complete and unmistakable from Alexander Whitmore's own mouth in his own voice with no lawyer alive who could argue it into something else.
But Marcus's relief lasted exactly that 1 second. Because on the monitor something changed in Claire's face. The tears were still there, but behind them something had gone hard and cold and done, and Marcus realized with a jolt of alarm that Claire Whitmore had gotten what she needed, and now she was going to do the thing he'd begged her not to do. She was going to stop acting.
Get your hand off me. Claire said. Her voice had changed completely. Gone was the small broken whisper.
This was the CEO, the woman who ran an empire, and she said it with such sudden cold authority that Alexander actually recoiled. Claire, I said get your hand off me, Alexander. She stood and now she was looking down at him and the tears on her face had become something else entirely. Not weakness, but fury held at a perfect controlled boil. 11 years.
You sat at my table for 11 years and smiled at me and the whole time you were waiting to do this. And Friday, you used a man, an innocent man, a father. You looked at Marcus Bennett and you saw someone whose whole life you could throw in a fire to warm your hands and you didn't think twice, did you? Someone that sticks.