What Daniel Was Really Afraid Of
Chapter 08 - What Daniel Was Really Afraid Of
Rebecca ordered a forensic review of my corporate accounts.
Three days later, she called me into her office.
"Sit down."
I looked at my wheelchair.
She sighed.
"Sorry."
"Keep going."
She almost smiled.
Then she handed me a folder.
Daniel had been negotiating the sale of Whitmore Home's manufacturing division.
My father's division.
The first factory my parents built together.
Eight hundred employees depended on it.
"He can't sell it without board approval."
"He's trying to get approval."
"Why?"
"Because the sale would create enough cash to fund an acquisition."
"What acquisition?"
Rebecca slid another page toward me.
A luxury real estate company.
Daniel's investment partners were involved.
Suddenly, everything made sense.
Whitmore Home had never been Daniel's dream.
It was mine.
I'd built the company around affordable furniture made by American manufacturing partners.
Daniel wanted a different business.
Bigger margins.
Fewer workers.
More investors.
Before the accident, we'd fought about it constantly.
After the accident, the fighting stopped.
Because I stopped attending meetings.
Stopped reading contracts.
Stopped believing I would ever return.
Daniel hadn't caused my accident.
Rebecca found no evidence of that, and I refused to invent monsters where facts didn't support them.
But he had used my injury.
My fear.
My dependence.
He had taken the worst thing that ever happened to me and turned it into an opportunity.
My phone buzzed.
Daniel.
I answered.
"We need to talk," he said.
"No."
"The board meets Monday."
"I know."
His silence told me he hadn't expected that.
"Claire, you're not ready."
"For what?"
"For what happens if you walk into that room."
I almost laughed.
"That's interesting."
"What?"
"You still think I need to walk."
"What are you talking about?"
"I don't need to stand up to stop you, Daniel."
Silence.
Then his voice changed.
"Be very careful."
I ended the call.
Monday morning, I put on the navy suit I used to wear during major negotiations.
Rebecca met me downstairs.
"You sure?"
I looked at my wheelchair.
Then at my reflection.
For eighteen months, I'd believed returning meant walking through those doors.
I had been wrong.
I rolled into Whitmore Home headquarters.
Employees stopped talking.
Some stared.
Some cried.
May you like
And when the elevator doors opened on the twentieth floor, Daniel was waiting.
Behind him stood the entire board.
