Chapter 6 - The Fund Behind the Party
The first regulator inquiry arrived in January.
By then, Clare was eight months pregnant.
She had returned to teaching for part of the fall, then taken leave earlier than planned because stress elevated her blood pressure.
Her students sent cards.
One wrote:
Ms. Mercer, babies are historically significant, so technically this is curriculum.
Clare laughed for five minutes.
She taped it to the refrigerator.
The Wittman investigation became broader.
No one accused Liam of creating HarborPoint’s valuation problems.
He did not.
But he had been willing to sell a story about Mercer capital he knew was not real.
That exposed him to internal discipline and potential civil consequences.
Richard faced more serious scrutiny.
Evidence suggested he knew the Mercer commitment did not exist.
Yet he allowed the implication to remain in presentations.
Beatrice’s involvement became embarrassing but secondary.
Then one email changed Liam’s situation.
Richard to Liam:
Don’t worry about formal Mercer commitment yet. Get enough verbal confidence from Clare that we can market momentum.
Liam:
She won’t discuss it.
Richard:
Then stop asking directly. Make it social. Jonathan doesn’t need to say yes. We need people to believe he won’t say no.
Clare read the email in Julia’s office.
“That sounds deliberate.”
“It is.”
“And Liam followed it.”
“Yes.”
Another message.
Liam:
Southampton party may help. Clare will be there.
Richard:
Good. Put her next to Charles Wynn and the Ashford people. Let them draw their own conclusions.
The party had been investor theater.
Clare’s presence itself was supposed to imply alignment.
No wonder Liam cared about the car.
Dress.
School.
Pronunciation.
Every detail needed to support the fiction.
Beatrice’s wine stunt had been cruelty layered over strategy.
She wanted Clare disciplined because Clare was performing the role badly.
The absurdity finally made Clare laugh.
Julia stared.
“Are you okay?”
“No.”
“Fair.”
“I spent twenty minutes worrying whether a seventy-dollar dress looked formal enough for a party designed to use my surname to move hundreds of millions.”
“When you say it that way—”
“It becomes funny.”
A week later, Liam accepted responsibility in Wittman’s internal process.
He admitted overstating likely Mercer interest.
Admitted failing to correct Richard.
Admitted undisclosed financial involvement with Beatrice.
Admitted misuse of joint funds but not company funds in that transaction.
Wittman terminated him.
For cause.
No severance.
Deferred compensation canceled under compliance provisions.
His licenses remained intact pending regulatory review.
He was not barred from finance.
Not yet.
But his reputation in that small world was damaged badly.
Clare learned from Julia.
She did not call him.
That evening Liam emailed.
I wanted to tell you myself.
Clare replied:
I’m sorry this happened. I hope you learn from it.
His response:
That sounds like something you’d write on a student paper.
She almost smiled.
Then another message:
Can I still be there when the baby is born?
Clare stared.
This was the question that mattered more than HarborPoint.
More than Beatrice.
More than Richard.
She had thought about it constantly.
Liam was her husband legally.
Soon ex-husband.
But also the baby’s father.
She replied:
If you can respect the boundaries we agree to beforehand, yes.
He answered immediately.
Anything.
Clare typed:
Do not say “anything” unless you mean it.
A minute later:
You’re right. Send me the boundaries.
Progress.
Small.
But real.
The divorce remained unresolved.
Pregnancy complicated timing.
Clare did not want financial warfare around delivery.
Julia negotiated temporary agreements.
Separate accounts.
No unilateral transfers.
Liam moved out permanently.
Clare returned to Queens because she wanted her own apartment.
Jonathan hated the stairs.
“There are three flights.”
“Yes.”
“You are eight months pregnant.”
“There’s an elevator.”
“It makes a noise.”
“All elevators make noise.”
“Not mine.”
“Exactly why I don’t live in yours.”
He grumbled.
Then quietly paid to repair the building elevator for every tenant.
Clare found out three weeks later.
“Dad.”
“It was unsafe.”
“It squeaked.”
“Gateway symptom.”
She laughed.
Their relationship had changed too.
Jonathan stopped suggesting she join Mercer Atlantic.
Clare stopped assuming every offer was an attempt to control her.
He attended childbirth classes with her once when Liam had a legal meeting.
The instructor asked:
“Are you Grandpa?”
Jonathan said:
“Unfortunately, yes.”
Clare kicked his chair.
At thirty-five weeks, she woke at 2:13 a.m. with contractions.
Too early.
She called her doctor.
Then Jonathan.
Then Liam.
In that order.
Liam answered on the first ring.
“What’s wrong?”
“Contractions.”
“I’m coming.”
“No driving like an idiot.”
“I won’t.”
He arrived at the hospital forty minutes later.
No suit.
No ambition.
No Richard.
No Beatrice.
Just Liam in an old college sweatshirt.
He stood near the bed.
“Can I come closer?”
Clare nodded.
For the first time in months, he asked before entering her space.
The contractions stopped after treatment.
False alarm.
The baby stayed put.
At dawn, Clare opened her eyes.
Liam was asleep in a chair.
His head bent awkwardly.
One hand resting near the edge of her blanket.
Not touching.
Waiting.
Clare watched him for a moment.
She still loved pieces of him.
May you like
That did not mean she wanted the marriage back.
That distinction had taken months to understand.
