Chapter 14 - My Mother’s Bargain
My mother had been speaking to Jonathan Cross Jr. for years.
Not secretly plotting against me.
Not exactly.
She had been trying to keep him away.
Every few months, Cross contacted her.
He wanted acknowledgment.
Access.
Eventually, money.
Mom paid him personally twice.
Small amounts compared with my company.
Large enough to teach him that pressure worked.
Another family member quietly buying peace.
Another disaster postponed instead of stopped.
When Cross appeared at her house, she let him in because she believed she could negotiate one final time.
Federal agents arrived before anything escalated.
Cross was arrested.
He had documents connecting him to the debt purchases and communications with Northstar intermediaries.
His scheme began collapsing.
But his arrest didn’t magically repair everything.
Rebecca faced consequences for unauthorized corporate access.
My father had to tell my mother about the affair.
Their marriage cracked.
Malcolm cooperated with investigators regarding Northstar and his own earlier misconduct.
Patricia faced scrutiny over the shell companies and fraudulent asset transfers.
Andrew faced the worst of it.
Fraud.
Forgery allegations.
Attempted custodial interference.
Financial crimes.
Civil claims.
The empire he had pretended to own disappeared faster than I expected.
Most of it had never been real.
Three months after the banquet, I filed for divorce.
I kept Vance & Horizon.
Not because I “won” it.
Because it had always been mine.
The disputed share certificates returned to company control.
The Virginia estate entered litigation.
I didn’t want it.
Patricia asked once whether I would buy it.
“No.”
“But the girls could have it someday.”
“No.”
She looked surprised.
“It’s valuable.”
“So?”
That question seemed incomprehensible to her.
Value did not require possession.
Legacy did not require collecting buildings.
Family did not require tolerating cruelty.
She eventually requested supervised visits with Sophia and Chloe.
I didn’t decide alone.
Therapists.
Attorneys.
The girls.
Sophia said no.
Chloe asked:
“Will Grandma take my dinner?”
That ended the discussion for the foreseeable future.
One evening, Sophia sat beside me while I repaired the small stain still visible on Chloe’s yellow dress.
“Why are you keeping that?”
I looked at the reddish mark.
“I don’t know.”
Sophia considered it.
“Throw it away.”
So we did.
That felt better than preserving evidence of pain as a symbol.
Later, my father came over.
He looked ten years older.
“I’m sorry.”
“For which part?”
He accepted that.
“For not trusting you enough to ask questions. For helping Andrew. For Rebecca. For everything.”
I wasn’t ready to forgive him.
But I was ready to stop pretending love erased consequences.
“I need time.”
He nodded.
Then handed me a folder.
“What’s this?”
“Something Cross gave your mother.”
Inside were documents from my anonymous original investor.
Jonathan Cross Sr.
The man who may have been my biological grandfather.
One handwritten letter was addressed to me.
I hesitated before opening it.
Lauren,
If you built something from the opportunity I gave you, it belongs to you. Do not allow my family to tell you otherwise.
I read it twice.
Cross Jr. had known.
His own grandfather had explicitly rejected the bloodline argument.
Yet he spent years pretending the opposite because entitlement was more convenient than truth.
Then I reached the final paragraph.
There is one matter your mother never allowed me to resolve. Before accepting any claim regarding Jonathan’s paternity, insist upon independent testing.
I looked up.
My mother had told me Jonathan Cross was my biological father.
But apparently even that had never been proven.
I called her.
“Mom, did you ever do a DNA test?”
Silence.
“No.”
“Then why did you tell me Daniel wasn’t my biological father?”
“Because Jonathan told me he was certain.”
“Certain isn’t evidence.”
“No.”
I looked toward the living room where Sophia and Chloe were building a blanket fort.
After everything that had happened because adults worshipped bloodlines, I almost laughed.
“Does Dad know?”
“Yes.”
“What does he say?”
Mom started crying.
“He says he doesn’t care.”
Neither did I.
Daniel Mercer was the man who raised me.
DNA could provide information.
It could not rewrite thirty-five years.
Then the doorbell rang.
A courier stood outside.
He handed me a sealed legal envelope.
No return address.
Inside was one document.
A copy of Andrew’s 5.4-million-peso promissory note.
But this version contained a page mine didn’t.
An addendum.
Signed six months earlier.
If Andrew defaulted, the lender gained an option involving a specific asset.
Not my company.
Not the estate.
A life-insurance policy.
Insured person:
Lauren Vance.
Policy amount:
$10 million.
Beneficiary:
Andrew Vance.
May you like
My hands went cold.
I had never purchased that policy.
