"Whatever she needs to make it public, we don't fight it." He met my eyes.
"I'll give a statement myself if that's what it takes."
I hadn't expected that.
I kept my face still, but something shifted in my chest — not forgiveness, not yet, but the first loosening of something that had been locked for a very long time.
"There's one more thing," I said.
"Name it," Julian said.
"I want to meet with the two board members who resigned.
Separately.
Before any settlement is signed."
Geoffrey frowned.
"May I ask why?"
"Because they were in the room that night," I said.
"And I want to know if they knew before Julian did, or after."
The silence that followed was answer enough.
Julian's jaw tightened.
He looked at Geoffrey.
Geoffrey looked at his portfolio.
"I'll arrange it," Julian said quietly.
I nodded and sat back.
Outside the tall office windows, London moved on — taxis, pedestrians, the distant sound of a bus.
Normal life, indifferent to the wreckage being sorted out in this room.
Then Julian said, very quietly, "Can I ask you something?
Not for the case."
Diane glanced at me.
I gave her a small nod.
"When did you know?" he asked.
"About the pregnancy.
When did you find out?"
I looked at him for a long moment.
"Six weeks after you filed for divorce," I said.
"I was in a hotel room in Portland.
I'd just been served the final papers."
He closed his eyes briefly.
"I sat on the bathroom floor for about an hour," I said.
"And then I got up and called my sister.
And that was that."
He opened his eyes.
They were red at the edges in a way I had never seen before.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"I know that's not enough."
"No," I agreed.
"It isn't."
But I said it without cruelty.
Just fact.
Geoffrey cleared his throat softly.
"Shall we discuss the terms?"
Richard Ashby arrived first.
He was sixty-one, silver-haired, and had the careful posture of a man who had spent decades in boardrooms managing the distance between himself and difficult truths.
He sat down across from me in the small conference room Diane had arranged — just the two of us, no attorneys — and placed both hands on the table as if to demonstrate he had nothing to hide.
"Mrs.
Vance," he began.
"Ms.
Vance," I said.
"Of course.
My apologies." He adjusted his cufflink.
"I want you to know that I resigned because I felt the board's continued silence was no longer something I could be part of."
"When did you find out?" I asked.
"Find out about what, specifically?"
"Don't do that," I said.
"You know what I'm asking."
He was quiet for a moment.
His hands moved slightly on the table.
"Marcus told me about the messages approximately one week before Julian confronted you," he said.
"He framed it as a security concern.
A potential leak.
He said the evidence had been discovered by the IT team and that he was managing the situation."
"And you believed him."
"I had no reason not to." He paused.
"At the time."
"When did you have a reason?"
Another pause.
Longer.
"About eight months after the divorce was finalized.
There was an internal audit — unrelated, routine — and one of the server logs flagged an anomaly in the tablet sync records from that period.
I asked Marcus about it privately." He stopped.
"What did he say?"
"He said it was a technical artifact.
Nothing to worry about." Richard looked at the table.
"But the way he said it."
"You knew," I said.
He didn't deny it.
"I told myself it wasn't my place to reopen something that was already settled," he said.
"That it would cause more harm than good."
"More harm to whom?"
He didn't answer.
"To the company," I said.
"You mean more harm to the company."
"I'm not proud of it."
"No." I looked at him steadily.
"I don't imagine you are."
The second board member, a woman named Patricia Osei, came in an hour later.
She was younger than Richard — late forties, precise and direct.
She sat down and spoke before I had a chance to open my mouth.
"I found out two years ago," she said.
"Not eight months.
Two years.
And I should have come forward then, and I didn't, and I have no excuse that I'm willing to offer you."
I studied her.
"What stopped you?" I asked.
"Honestly?" She met my eyes.
"I didn't know about the girls.
I knew the messages had been fabricated.
I didn't know you'd tried to contact Julian.
I didn't know there were children." Her voice stayed level, but something moved underneath it.
"When the filing came through and I read the full scope of what Marcus had done — the letters, the cease and desist — I went home and I couldn't sleep."
"That's not the same as doing something," I said.
"No," she said.
"It isn't."
We sat with that for a moment.
"I'll testify," she said.
"Whatever you need.
Deposition, court, public statement.
I'll say exactly what I knew and when I knew it and what I failed to do."
"Why now?"
She looked at me directly.
"Because I have a daughter," she said.
"She's seven.
And I kept thinking — what if someone did this to her?
What if someone took everything from her and the people who knew just...
stayed quiet because it was easier?"
I didn't say anything.
"I know that's not your problem," Patricia said.
"I'm not asking you to care about my reasons.
I'm just telling you the truth."
I nodded once.
After she left, I sat alone in the conference room for a few minutes.
Diane knocked and opened the door.
"How did it go?"
"Richard knew for three years and said nothing." I gathered my things.
"Patricia knew for two and is willing to testify."
"We can use Patricia." Diane leaned against the doorframe.
"Richard's silence is harder to prosecute but it won't play well publicly."
"No," I said.
"It won't."
I stood up and put on my coat.
"Diane," I said, "how long before Marcus can be named in a formal complaint to the financial regulator?"
She considered.
"If Patricia gives her statement this week — ten days.
Maybe less."
I buttoned my coat.
"Schedule her deposition for Monday," I said.
I didn't expect Marcus Hale to find me.