Chapter 7 - The Unraveling of Patricia
The corporate boardroom on the forty-second floor of the State Street tower looked out over a gray, fog-shrouded Boston Harbor. The long glass table was surrounded by twelve men in dark suits—the primary investors from New York and the executive board of Wilson Architecture.
Patricia sat at the far end of the table, looking radiant in a cream Valentino dress, her hands resting casually over her stomach in a calculated gesture of maternal vulnerability. Her lead attorney, a sharp-faced man named Vance, sat beside her with a stack of legal nondisclosure agreements.
When the double doors opened, it wasn't just Michael who walked in.
I walked beside him, my navy Theory suit pressed, my hair pinned back, the pearl necklace catching the fluorescent lights of the ceiling. And behind us, walking in a neat, silent line, came Tommy, Luke, and Kevin.
The board members shifted uncomfortably in their leather chairs. One of the New York investors, an older man named Henderson, frowned. "Mr. Wilson, this is an extraordinary executive session regarding a serious contractual violation. This is not a family day care."
"This is a family business, Mr. Henderson," Michael said, his voice ringing through the silent room as he took his seat at the head of the table. "And since the complaint filed against me directly concerns the legitimacy of my family structure, I felt it appropriate that the entire family be present to answer the allegations."
Patricia let out a soft, pitying sigh from her end of the table. "Michael, please. Don't make this harder on yourself than it already is. Jenny, look at the children. You're dragging them through a public scandal just to protect your pride. Sign the asset release so we can all move on with our lives."
I didn't sit down. I walked down the length of the glass table until I stood directly behind Patricia’s chair. She didn't look up, but her shoulder muscles tightened beneath the cream fabric of her dress.
"Patricia," I said softly, my voice carrying into the corners of the silent room. "Ten years ago, you took our parents' house in Brookline because you claimed I didn't have the financial maturity to manage the estate. I let you have it because I believed that family was more important than brick and mortar. But you made a mistake when you came into my kitchen in Newton."
"Jenny, sit down," Patricia’s lawyer snapped, standing up and reaching for his briefcase. "This is highly inappropriate—"
"Let her speak," Mr. Henderson interrupted, his sharp eyes darting between me and Patricia. "I want to hear what Mrs. Wilson has to say before we cast the vote."
I reached into my navy jacket, pulling out a small, digital storage drive and dropping it onto the center of the glass table.
"On that drive," I said, "is the complete medical log from the Sloan Kettering Oncology Archive in Manhattan, dated July 2021. It contains the operative report for a total hysterectomy performed on Patricia Vance."
The room went completely, terrifyingly silent.
Patricia’s face didn't just turn pale; it turned the color of chalk. Her fingers, which had been resting over her stomach, froze.
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"That's a lie," she whispered, her voice dropping into a ragged, guttural register that sounded nothing like her corporate purr. "That's a violation of medical privacy laws—"
"It was accessed using the authorized credentials of Dr. Elizabeth Vance," I said, pointing toward the doorway where our aunt stepped into the room, carrying a certified copy of the New Jersey surrogate agency contract. "The ultrasound you presented to this board was purchased for four thousand dollars from a digital stock site. The signature on the fertility clinic form was copied from the non-disclosure agreement you forced Michael to sign at the St. Regis bar six months ago."
