Chapter 3 - Shadows in the Corporate Corridor
Over the next two weeks, the Atlanta mansion became a psychological battlefield disguised as a high-society home. To the outside world, Douglas and Gertrude played the part of devoted family members. They hosted small weekend gatherings on the back patio, inviting local business associates and neighborhood friends to sip Chardonnay while Douglas publicly lamented the tragic burden of his brother's condition.
"It’s heartbreaking," Douglas told a group of investors over a barbecue on a humid Tuesday afternoon, dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin. "Garrett was such a dynamic leader. Now, his world is just this house, these walls. We’re doing everything we can to keep him comfortable, but the neurological damage is extensive. The specialists say the neural pathways have simply frayed beyond repair."
I stood near the edge of the patio holding a tray of iced tea, my teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached. Douglas was a master performer. He wore custom linen shirts and an air of sorrowful nobility that had every guest nodding in sympathetic agreement.
"It's a blessing he has such a dedicated caregiver," one of the female guests remarked, casting a polite, dismissive glance in my direction. "Someone like that must cost a fortune, but family is everything."
"Indeed," Gertrude added smoothly, her eyes locking onto mine with a sharp, warning glint. "We spare no expense for Garrett. We treat our staff like family, too—provided they understand the boundaries of our household."
The subtext was unmistakable: We are watching you, Rebecca. Do your job, keep your mouth shut, and remember who signs your checks.
Upstairs, away from the prying eyes of the guests, Garrett and I were engaged in a very different kind of work. Every afternoon, while Douglas was at the ApexBio headquarters downtown and Evelyn was playing bridge at the country club, Garrett and I locked the bedroom door.
Using a sturdy physical therapy harness I had secretly ordered online and paid for with my own savings, I helped him out of the wheelchair. The first time his feet touched the hardwood floor, his knees buckled violently. He let out a sharp gasp of frustration, his weight crashing against my shoulder.
"Easy," I murmured, holding him tight around the waist, drawing on the exact body-mechanics training I had used to support my stroke-ridden father. "Don't fight the floor, Garrett. Find your center of gravity. Your muscles have been dormant; they're waking up from a deep freeze. It's going to burn."
"It feels like walking on hot coals," he panted, sweat beading across his forehead, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the parallel bars we had rigged between the heavy oak wardrobe and the bathroom door. "My calves... they're screaming."
"Good," I said, my voice firm, leaving no room for self-pity. "Pain means the nerves are firing. Nerves firing mean you're healing. Now, lift your right heel. Shift your weight. Just like that."
Day by day, the progress was agonizingly slow, but it was undeniable. By the end of the second week, Garrett could support his own weight for thirty seconds without the harness. By the end of the third week, he could take two shaky, deliberate steps across the Persian rug.
But hiding our progress from the household required theatrical precision. Before every scheduled visit from Douglas or Gertrude, Garrett would slide back into the wheelchair, drape a cashmere blanket over his legs, and lean back with a vacant, exhausted expression. I would scatter a few medical journals around the room to sell the illusion of stagnation.
The tension in the house reached a boiling point on a rainy Thursday evening.
Douglas had returned home earlier than usual. Instead of going straight to his study, he marched up the stairs and knocked briskly on Garrett’s door before pushing it open without waiting for an invitation.
I was standing near the window, folding a stack of clean towels. Garrett was sitting in his wheelchair by the desk, looking over a stack of medical charts we kept as decoys.
Douglas strode into the room, his umbrella dripping water onto the pristine wooden floor. His face was flushed, and his tie was loosened around his collar. He looked stressed—the kind of corporate stress that comes from realizing a hostile takeover is slipping out of your hands.
"Rebecca, leave us," Douglas ordered abruptly, not even glancing at me.
I paused, looking at Garrett. Garrett gave me a subtle, almost imperceptible nod.
"Of course, Mr. Corbin," I said, setting the towels down and walking toward the door. As I passed Douglas, I caught a sharp, distinct scent clinging to his expensive suit—cheap perfume. Not Gertrude's perfume. Another woman. The corporate world, it seemed, was full of men who kept secrets behind closed doors. Christopher had taught me how to spot those signs from a mile away.
I stepped out into the hallway, pulling the heavy oak door almost entirely shut, but leaving a narrow, two-inch gap so I could hear every word.
"What do you want, Douglas?" Garrett’s voice was cold, stripped of any familial warmth.
"I want to talk about the quarterly board restructuring," Douglas said, his voice dropping into a hard, demanding register. "The legal team is pushing for a definitive medical prognosis. If you sign the temporary proxy agreement tonight, it gives the executive committee stability while you continue your... treatment here."
"A temporary proxy agreement that permanently transfers voting rights to your bloc," Garrett scoffed. "You don't want stability, Douglas. You want a coronation."
"Be realistic, Garrett!" Douglas snapped, his composure cracking, the thin veneer of the grieving brother dissolving into corporate desperation. "You’re sitting in a chair! You haven't walked in eight months! The specialists agree that your spine is compromised. Why are you dragging this out? Are you waiting for a miracle?"
"Miracles happen, Douglas," Garrett replied evenly. "Sometimes people who think they've buried their competition find out the grave was empty."
There was a long, suffocating silence in the room. Through the crack in the door, I saw Douglas take a slow, menacing step toward the wheelchair.
"Listen to me," Douglas hissed, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Mother is getting older. Her estate planning is tied directly to ApexBio's stability. If you force a shareholder battle, we will tear this family apart in court. We will paint you as mentally unstable—traumatized by the accident, prone to delusions, unfit to hold a single share of stock. You will lose everything, Garrett. Sign the proxy."
My hand hovered near my pocket, where my phone was set to record audio. I didn't hesitate. I pressed record, capturing every word of Douglas's explicit threat.
"I'll sign nothing," Garrett said quietly. "Get out of my room."
Douglas stared down at his brother for a long, venomous moment before turning on his heel and storming out. He threw the door open so hard it nearly hit me against the wall. He gave me a sharp, suspicious glare, his eyes narrowing.
"Check his evening vitals, Rebecca," Douglas snarled, adjusting his jacket. "And make sure he takes every single pill. I don't want him having another night of 'spasms' keeping the house awake."
He strode down the hall, his footsteps echoing like gunshots against the hardwood.
I waited until the front door downstairs clicked shut, signaling his departure for his evening study session. Then I pushed the door open all the way and walked back into the room.
Garrett was gripping the arms of his wheelchair, his knuckles white, his chest heaving with adrenaline.
"Did you get it?" he whispered, his eyes fixed on me.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket, tapped the screen, and played back the clear, undeniable audio of Douglas's threat.
May you like
"Every word," I said.
Garrett let out a long breath, a fierce, triumphant smile finally breaking through his drawn features. "Good. Because tomorrow, the board of directors is holding an emergency review meeting. And we are going to crash the party."
