Contracted To My Enemy

The Hidden Hand

*Aleta Pov*

The boardroom doors are already open. Twelve faces turn. My father sits at the head of the table. David sits beside him, stiff.

"Aleta." My father doesn't stand. "You brought company."

"I'm still on this board," I say. "I don't need permission."

"Your former company."

"Not on paper." I set a folder on the table. "You disinherited me. You never removed me from the board. Different documents."

Alvarez, one of the older directors, reaches for his copy of the bylaws. He reads for a moment, then looks up.

"She's right," he says. "Technically."

"Technically doesn't matter tonight," my father says. "We have an agenda."

"Then let's stick to it," says a lawyer near the end of the table, not looking up from his notes. "Ms. Mendoza's standing isn't the issue on the table. David's transfer is."

A few heads nod. My father relaxes, just slightly, thinking the room is already back on his side.

"Before we proceed," I say, "I have a question. Not for my father. For all twelve of you."

"This isn't the time," my father says.

"Let her ask," Alvarez says. "One question."

My father's jaw tightens, but he doesn't stop it.

"Six years ago I restructured the resort division after it nearly collapsed. Every person in this room signed off on giving me full authority to do it. Why does a man who just discovered a hidden son twenty-six years in the making suddenly know better than results?"

"That's not a fair comparison," another director says. "Blood succession is normal in family companies. It isn't personal."

"It became personal the moment he chose a stranger over six years of work," I say.

"Enough," my father says. "David is my son. That's settled."

"Nothing about tonight is settled," Alvarez says. "You called this session with less than a day's notice. Why the rush?"

"Because the market is already reacting to the engagement," my father says. "We need stability. A clear line of succession, announced fast, before speculation damages the stock price."

"That's reasonable," the lawyer says.

"It would be," I say, "if he weren't also moving money into new accounts at the same time."

The room shifts, but not all at once. One director frowns. Another leans back, arms crossed, clearly skeptical.

"What accounts?" Alvarez asks.

"Three offshore accounts. Opened yesterday morning."

"That could be anything," the skeptical director says. "Companies move money constantly. You're implying something without proof."

"Then let him explain it," Roman says, speaking for the first time. "Simple as that."

My father doesn't flinch. "Those are subsidiary accounts," he says smoothly. "Standard restructuring ahead of the transfer. Nothing unusual."

"Then the paperwork will show that," Alvarez says. "Show us."

"That information is confidential," my father says. "Company policy protects—"

"Company policy protects the board's right to see the accounts of the company we sit on," the lawyer says, finally looking up. "Not the other way around."

My father's jaw tightened. "This is exactly why I wanted this vote done quickly. Delays invite exactly this kind of distraction."

"A distraction," Alvarez repeats slowly, "or a legitimate question you don't want answered tonight."

"I've built this company for thirty years," my father says, voice rising now. "I don't owe anyone at this table an explanation for how I manage its finances."

"You owe the board," the skeptical director says, quieter now, less sure of himself than a minute ago. "That's what a board is for."

For a second, no one speaks. Then Roman leans forward.

"There's an easy way to settle this without an argument," he says. "Bring in an independent auditor. Tonight, or tomorrow morning. If the accounts are what he says, this ends in five minutes and David gets his transfer with the board's full confidence. If they're not, you'll want to know before you vote, not after."

Silence. It's not what I expected from him, and from the look on my father's face, it's not what he expected either. It's clean. Fair-sounding. Nobody in the room can object to it without looking like they have something to hide.

"That seems reasonable," the lawyer says.

"I have nothing to hide," my father says, too fast.

"Then an audit costs you nothing," Alvarez says. "Except tonight's vote."

My father looks around the table, searching for support that isn't fully there anymore. A few directors still won't meet his eyes.

"This is a delay tactic," he says. "Nothing more."

"It's a delay you created," I say, "the moment you opened accounts no one asked about."

David, who has been silent the whole meeting, finally speaks. "Dad. If they're clean, an audit proves it. Why does that scare you?"

My father turns to him, something sharp crossing his face, like he's only now remembering his son is sitting beside him and can hear all of this too.

"It doesn't scare me," he says. "It's an insults to me."

"It's one audit," David says. "Not an accusation."

My father doesn't answer that. He looks at the table instead.

Alvarez straightens his papers. "I move we delay the vote forty-eight hours, pending an independent audit of the accounts in question."

"Second," the lawyer says.

A few more hands go up around the table. Not all of them. Enough.

My father sits very still, like the room has already made a decision he can't undo by talking louder.

"This is a betrayal," he says quietly, looking only at me now. "You did this."

"You did this," I say. "The day you decided I was worth less than a son you hid for twenty-six years."

He doesn't answer. The meeting ends without a vote.

The room empties slowly. My father leaves first, fast, without looking at anyone. David lingers a moment, glances at me, then follows him out.

Alvarez stops beside me. "You've been quiet on this board for six years," he says. "I always wondered why."

"I thought loyalty meant staying quiet."

"And now?"

"Now I think it was just fear with better manners."

He almost smiles, nods once at Roman, and leaves.

The room goes empty except for us. I sit down in one of the chairs, and for a second I don't say anything at all. My hands are shaking, small, barely visible. I stood in that room and said everything I never let myself say for six years. It's done now. Nobody can take it back. I don't feel triumphant. I feel hollow, and tired, in a way I don't have words for yet.

Roman doesn't rush me. He leans against the table, watching, quiet, letting the silence sit there instead of filling it with something clever.

"You okay?" he asks, eventually.

"I don't know yet." I look up at him. "Ask me tomorrow."

He nods, like that's an answer he understands.

"The audit," I say. "That wasn't in the plan."

"No."

"Why'd you do it?"

"Because your father would have talked his way around anything I could accuse him of," Roman says. "But he can't talk his way around an audit. Numbers don't negotiate."

I study him for a second. "That's the first time tonight I actually believed you know what you're doing as well as you think you do."

The corner of his mouth moves, almost a smile. "High praise."

"Don't get used to it."

We leave together, the elevator doors closing behind us.

"Forty-eight hours," I say. "That's not long."

"Long enough for your father to panic," Roman says. "Long enough for whoever's helping him to make a mistake too."

I think of David's face when he asked his father to prove himself. I think of best friend, Vanessa who still hasn't called since the headline broke, which isn't like her at all.

"Do you actually think he has help?" I ask.

Roman watches the floor numbers count down, jaw tight.

"I think your father has never solved a problem alone in his life," he says. "Someone structured those accounts for him. Someone patient. Someone with real financial training."

The doors close.

"Someone," he says, "we haven't met yet."