Chapter 11 - THE SECOND ENVELOPEA year after the wedding that wasn't, Charles Ashford was sentenced.
So did Thomas Vane.
Neither man's future looked pleasant.
Federal prosecutors charged them with conspiracy, fraud, attempted murder, obstruction, and multiple financial crimes.
Thomas was also charged in connection with my father's death after a former mechanic agreed to testify that Thomas had paid him to leave the hangar unlocked.
Charles Ashford pleaded guilty to fraud, obstruction, and conspiracy-related offenses.
He also admitted withholding information after my father's crash.
The newspapers called it the collapse of a dynasty.
Victoria called it Tuesday.
By then, she had returned to work.
Her arm remained in a sling.
Her apartment was small.
Yes, apartment.
She had moved out of my penthouse.
That surprised me.
“You can stay until this is finished,” I'd told her.
She shook her head.
“That's exactly why I shouldn't.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to know whether I can build something without borrowing your life.”
I helped carry boxes.
She refused furniture.
“Victoria, you need a bed.”
“I bought one.”
“That's a mattress.”
“It becomes a bed when you sleep on it.”
My mother loved that answer.
Victoria's nonprofit job became permanent.
She was good at it.
Not instantly.
Her first major fundraising pitch was a disaster because she ordered twelve cases of sparkling mineral water that cost more than the event's printing budget.
Her boss made her return them.
Victoria complained for twenty minutes.
Then apologized.
Three months later, she organized an event that raised $600,000.
Without celebrities.
Without a ballroom.
Without making the night about herself.
I attended anonymously.
She spotted me near the back.
Afterward, she approached.
“You came.”
“You invited me.”
“I sent invitations to four hundred people.”
“I assumed mine was intentional.”
“It was.”
We stood awkwardly.
For two people who had almost married, we were suddenly terrible at conversation.
She looked good.
Not in the old polished way.
Happy.
Grounded.
She wore a black dress that probably cost less than the shoes she'd worn at our rehearsal dinner.
“You seem different,” I said.
“So do you.”
“I've always been charming.”
She laughed.
“That must be recent.”
Then the smile faded.
“Nathan, I heard about the shipyard.”
The state formally announced the deep-water freight corridor.
Mercer Shipyard's valuation exploded overnight.
Offers surpassed five billion dollars.
I rejected them all.
“Everyone thinks I'm insane,” I said.
“Are you?”
“Probably.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
I told her.
Her eyes widened.
“You're serious?”
“Yes.”
Instead of selling the entire property to private developers, Mercer Industrial planned to redevelop only part of it.
The rest would become a mixed-use industrial and training district.
Union jobs.
Trade schools.
Affordable housing.
Public waterfront access.
A memorial center for workers who built the old shipyard.
And a restitution fund financed from a portion of future development profits.
“For Ashford victims?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Nathan, you didn't steal their money.”
“My money helped keep the fraud alive.”
“You didn't know.”
“Neither did some of the people whose signatures were used.”
She understood.
“Responsibility without guilt.”
“Something like that.”
Her eyes softened.
“Your mother teach you that?”
“Constantly.”
We walked outside.
Queens traffic hummed.
Victoria shoved her hands into her coat pockets.
“What happens to us?”
There it was.
The question we'd avoided for months.
“I don't know.”
“Do you hate me?”
“No.”
That answer came easily.
“Do you trust me?”
I didn't answer as quickly.
She nodded.
“Fair.”
“Victoria—”
“Don't soften it.”
“I trust who you're becoming.”
She looked at me.
“That's not the same.”
“No.”
“Could it ever be?”
I considered lying.
Instead:
“Maybe.”
Her eyes filled slightly.
But she smiled.
“I can live with maybe.”
We didn't kiss.
That mattered.
The old Victoria would have wanted a dramatic scene.
The old me might have given her one because I wanted problems solved quickly.
Instead, we walked three blocks for coffee.
She paid.
The card declined.
Victoria stared at the machine.
Then at me.
I raised an eyebrow.
“Don't.”
She tried again.
Declined.
I started laughing.
“Nathan Mercer, if you pay for this coffee, I will throw it at you.”
The cashier looked terrified.
Victoria checked her banking app.
“Payroll deposit clears tomorrow.”
I was still laughing.
She pulled five dollars from her purse.
Cash.
“See?”
She bought us two coffees.
May you like
We drank them on the sidewalk.
And somehow that five-dollar coffee meant more than the million-dollar wedding we'd never finished.
