Chapter 4 - Nolan’s Folder
Nolan held up the white folder like a man presenting evidence.
“Elise,” he said, gentle enough for the crowd, “I’m concerned about you.”
A few guests shifted closer.
Celia folded her arms.
My father sighed softly, performing disappointment for donors who did not know him well enough to recognize the shape of it.
Nolan opened the folder just enough for me to see printed pages, blurred from a distance. “There have been reports. Erratic behavior. Aggressive messages. Questions about your fitness to serve as a family representative for the foundation.”
I almost smiled.
A family representative.
Not a daughter.
Not an officer.
A brand asset.
“Who wrote the reports?” I asked.
Nolan’s expression stayed smooth. “People who care about you.”
“That usually means people who benefit from my silence.”
A murmur went through the lobby.
Celia stepped in quickly. “Elise, don’t make this worse.”
“You invited me here.”
“We invited you to behave.”
I looked at my father.
“Did you authorize this?”
Grant Warren did not answer immediately. That was his gift: he could make silence look thoughtful instead of cowardly.
Finally, he said, “Nolan has found things that concern us.”
“No,” I said. “Nolan has collected things that protect him.”
For the first time, Nolan’s eyes hardened.
There.
The polite mask cracked.
I had spent fourteen years reading men in rooms where seconds mattered. Nolan’s face told me more than his folder ever could.
He expected shame to move me.
He expected exhaustion to weaken me.
He expected the crowd to do the work.
So I set my black case on the marble floor and clicked it open.
Celia’s face changed.
May you like
Not much.
Enough.
