“Do you recall clause 17.3 of our contract?” he asked, turning the folder so Ronan could see it. “The morality clause?”
Ronan’s blood turned cold. It had been the one provision in the entire contract that had given him pause during the initial negotiations. Beauchamp’s legal team had insisted on it and fighting it would have raised red flags. So, he’d instructed his own lawyers to let it pass without challenge.
“A provision allowing me to withdraw within 24 hours upon discovery of fraudulent or deceptive business practices,” Andrew recited, not needing to look at the text. “Shall I read you the penalty provisions for a breach?”
“That won’t be necessary.” His mind computed the damage, which was fatal to Oath Capital in its current expansion phase. They’d leveraged on the promise of the Beauchamp capital.
Andrew’s expression softened. “I don’t want to invoke this clause. Despite what transpired, I believe in your vision for Oath Capital.”
He knew better than to grasp at it—Negotiation 101. Let the other party continue, reveal their position.
“But I can’t ignore what happened,” Andrew continued. “My reputation, my investment philosophy—built on integrity. How can I maintain this partnership after such a breach of trust?”
The question hung between them, rhetorical yet demanding an answer.
“You have until three tomorrow,” Andrew said. “Twenty-four hours from when we signed. Convince me that there’s truth here not only in your business model, but in the people behind it. Show me the man I thought I was investing in exists.”
“I thought you invested in family men,” Ronan said, a note of challenge in his voice. “Men with stability. With ‘proper values.’ I didn’t think I could take that chance.”
Andrew relaxed. “Is that what you thought? That I was looking for some perfect family picture?” He shook his head. “I don’t invest in family men. I invest in whole men. Men who understand that business is about more than the bottom line.” He sighed. “It was never about whether you were engaged. It was about seeing you capable of more than cold calculation.”
He moved toward the door, then paused. “What disappoints me isn’t the deception itself. It’s that you thought you needed it. Your business stands on its own merits. But you couldn’t trust that would be enough.”
The accusation struck with accuracy. He had relied on controlling every variable. Trusting in the inherent value of what he’d built—trusting someone else to recognize it without manipulation—had seemed naïve.
When Andrew pulled open the door, the finality of his departure hung heavy in the air. “I’ll be returning to Martha’s Vineyard tonight. I’ll send a car to your office at noon tomorrow to take you to the heliport,” he said, his voice stripped of its usual charm. “We’ll continue this discussion at my home before the deadline. I hope you’ll give me reason not to proceed with withdrawal.”
They parted without comment, leaving him alone in the conference room, the finality sinking into his bones. For a long moment, he remained still. The company he’d built fromnothing—his life’s work—now teetered near complete ruin. Because of his refusal to trust in the value of what he’d created. Because of her moment of impulsive truth-telling.
When he emerged from the conference room, employees scattered as he approached, avoiding eye contact, focusing on their screens or paperwork. He strode through the open floor plan with measured steps, his face giving no hint of his thoughts, the storm inside hidden from view.
“Knox, Gabriel. My office. Now,” he said, not breaking stride.
Once inside his office, he moved to the window.
Knox and Gabriel entered his office, closing the door behind them. For once, Knox’s perpetual smirk was absent, replaced by grim concern.
“How bad?” Gabriel asked.
“Morality clause,” he said, not turning from the window. “Twenty-four hours to convince Andrew not to withdraw.”
“Jesus,” Knox breathed. “The penalties would be?—”
“Catastrophic,” he finished for him, an edge of vulnerability in his voice. “Everything we’ve built.”
A heavy silence filled the room. The three men who had built Oath Capital from the ground up now faced its potential ruin. This wasn’t business—it was their life’s work. Their legacy.
“What do we do?” Knox asked.
“I don’t know,” Ronan admitted, the words bitter on his lips. In all their years together, he’d never uttered those three words. He’d always had a plan, a strategy, a response to every challenge.
“She didn’t know Andrew was there,” Gabriel offered. “No one did.”
His jaw tightened. “It doesn’t change the outcome.”
“So, what’s our play?” Knox asked, leaning against the credenza. “How do we convince Andrew not to pull out?”
He moved to his desk, mind calculating likely scenarios, potential strategies. None of them seemed adequate for the situation.
