After My Murder I Returned

Boardroom Blood

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Chapter 4: Boardroom Blood

Day 21 started with a text from Jonah at 6:12 AM.

Jonah Carter: DUDE

Jonah Carter: I GOT IN

Jonah Carter: Georgetown Law. Full-time. I, like, actually did it

Jonah Carter: uh can we not talk about the fact I cried when I opened the email

Nathan was already awake. He hadn’t slept much since the Whole Foods run-in with Melanie. Kept expecting to see Douglas’s Escalade outside his apartment.

He typed back: Holy shit. Jo. That’s... that’s amazing.

Nathan: We’re celebrating. My treat. Pick the place. I don’t care if it’s, like, illegal expensive.

Three dots. Then:

Jonah Carter: u sure? cause I’ve always wanted to try that steakhouse where they age the beef in, idk, plutonium

Nathan: Done. Tonight. 7 PM. And, uh... I’m paying your tuition.

It took Jonah four minutes to respond.

Jonah Carter: nate

Jonah Carter: no

Jonah Carter: like no offense but NO

Jonah Carter: I’m not ur charity case

Nathan called him. Jonah picked up on the first ring. “Dude. No. Absolutely not.”

“Uh, hi to you too,” Nathan said. “Listen—”

“No. I’m not, like, I’m not taking your money. Damien’s money. Whatever. I got loans. I got—”

“It’s not charity,” Nathan cut in. “It’s... it’s an investment.”

Jonah went quiet. “...In what?”

“In you.” Nathan stared at his ceiling. “You’re gonna be, um, you’re gonna be the best lawyer Reed Capital ever has. So I’m paying for school. No strings. No, like, ‘you owe me’ bullshit. You just... you pay me back by being the guy who tells me when I’m being an idiot. Deal?”

A long pause. Then Jonah, rough: “You’re, like, you’re really freaking me out, man. First the apology, now this. Did you get diagnosed with something?”

“No.” Just déjà vu and trauma. “I just... I figured out who matters. You matter. So yeah. Deal?”

Jonah exhaled. “...Yeah. Okay. Deal. But I’m, uh, I’m still paying for dinner. Don’t argue with me.”

Nathan smiled. First real one in days. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

---

Day 22 was the board meeting.

Reed Ventures boardroom. Glass table, DC skyline, eight men and one woman who’d all known Nathan since he was in diapers. They all looked at him like he was a stain on Damien’s shirt.

Nathan wore the charcoal Canali. Not to impress them. To remind himself.

Damien didn’t introduce him. Just said, “Nathan’s observing today. He doesn’t speak unless spoken to. Understood?”

A bunch of *mmhmm*s. Richard Hargrove — CFO, old money, old politics — didn’t bother hiding his eye roll.

They ran through Q3. Losses. Wins. NexPay came up last.

“Hargrove,” Damien said. “Term sheet.”

Hargrove tapped his iPad. “We’re in at 2M for 18%. High risk. The founder’s, uh, she’s young. Emotional. Woman-led tech is volatile.”

Nathan’s hand twitched. The stitches pulled.

“Volatile,” Damien repeated. Flat.

“I’m just saying,” Hargrove said, “we could’ve put that 2M into, like, real estate. Something tangible. This is—”

“It’s done,” Damien said. “Unless someone has a time machine and a better idea?”

The room went quiet.

Then:

“I do.”

Every head turned.

Nathan hadn’t meant to say it. But his mouth was ahead of his brain.

Damien’s eyes narrowed. “I said you don’t speak unless—”

“You asked if someone had a better idea,” Nathan said. His voice shook. Not from fear. From memory. He’d sat in this room in the other life, years later, while Hargrove explained why Reed Capital was bleeding out. “I don’t. I, uh, I think NexPay’s the best idea we’ve had in a decade.”

Hargrove laughed. “Kid, you don’t even know what—”

“I know Elena Torres built her first app at MIT when she was sixteen,” Nathan said. Fast. “I know their churn rate is 2.3% because she, like, personally calls every client who cancels. I know their Q1 projections are low because they’re sandbagging for Series B. And I know that ‘woman-led tech’ is volatile because men like you get nervous when they can’t take credit for it.”

Silence.

Damien was staring at him. Not angry. Just... watching.

“...Continue,” Damien said.

Nathan swallowed. “Uh, I mean... we should double down. When Series B opens, we lead. Before Caldwell does. Before anyone does. Because in, like, three years, NexPay’s gonna be the reason Reed Capital is still relevant.”

Hargrove’s face went red. “You arrogant little—”

“Enough,” Damien said. Quiet. The room shut up. He looked at Nathan for a long time. Then at Hargrove. “He’s right.”

Hargrove choked. “Damien—”

“He’s right,” Damien said again. “Pull the Series B file. I want options by Monday.”

He didn’t look at Nathan. Didn’t say good job. But when the meeting ended, he walked past and said, low, “My office. Five minutes.”

Nathan’s stomach dropped.

Damien’s office. Door closed.

“Sit.”

Nathan sat.

Damien didn’t sit. He stood at the window, back to Nathan, hands behind his back. “Where did you read that?”

“Uh... what?”

“The churn rate. The Series B sandbagging. That’s not, mmm, that’s not in the deck.”

Because I lived it.

“I, um... I talked to Elena. Last week. I wanted to, like, understand the investment.”

Damien turned. “You cold-called a CEO?”

“Yeah. She, uh... she took the call.”

Damien studied him. “You’ve been different. Since the gala.”

Nathan went cold. “I didn’t go to the gala.”

“I know.” Damien’s eyes were sharp. “That’s what’s different. You never miss a party, Nathan. But you missed that one. And then you sign NexPay. And then you quote churn rates. So I’ll ask again.”

He stepped forward.

“Who are you?”

Nathan’s heart was in his throat. “I’m... I’m your son.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.” Nathan stood too. “I’m just... I’m just trying to be a better one. I know I’ve been, like, a disappointment. I know I’ve been an ass. But I’m trying, Dad. I swear I’m trying.”

Damien didn’t say anything. Then he nodded. Once.

“Don’t make me regret it.”

“I won’t.”

Damien went back to his desk. Dismissed.

Nathan was at the door when Damien said, “Your hand.”

Nathan stopped. “It’s fine.”

“It’s bandaged. Again.”

“Yeah. I, um... I’m clumsy.”

Damien huffed. “You’re a lot of things. Clumsy isn’t one of them. Sophia’s worried.”

Nathan’s throat closed. “I’ll... I’ll call her.”

“Do more than call.”

---

Day 24 was the gift.

Courier. No return address. Nathan signed for it, thinking it was NexPay docs.

It wasn’t.

It was a photo. 8x10. Glossy.

Melanie Rivers. At the gala. Red dress. The one she’d worn in the other life when Nathan spilled champagne on her.

She was laughing. Looking right at the camera. Like she knew he’d see it.

There was a note, taped to the back. Handwritten.

She’s asking about you. -D

D. Douglas.

Nathan stared at it for a long time. His hands didn’t shake.

He took the photo, the note, and fed them into his shredder. Watched them turn into ribbons.

Then he opened his laptop.

PROJECT HALO – SUBFOLDER: RIVERS, D.

He typed one line:

Buy everything he owes. By EOY.

---

Day 25 was Amber.

His hand was infected. Of course it was. He’d gotten the stitches wet, like an idiot, because he forgot Amber’s “48 hours” rule.

Urgent care at 11 PM. Same ER.

He got room three again.

Curtain pulled back.

Amber Evans. Hair down this time. Dark circles worse. Holding a coffee that smelled like death.

She saw him. Stopped.

“You,” she said.

“Uh, hi.”

“You’re, like, kidding me right now.” She walked over, grabbed his hand. “I told you. I told you. Don’t get it wet. Did you, like, go swimming with it?”

“No. I, um... I showered.”

“With the bandage off?”

“...Yes?”

She closed her eyes. “God. Men are, like, actually the worst species.” She snapped on gloves. “This is gonna need to be drained. And you’re getting antibiotics. And I’m, uh, I’m writing ‘does not follow directions’ on your chart in bold.”

“Fair,” Nathan said.

She worked in silence for a minute. Then: “Why do you keep punching walls, Nathan?”

He didn’t answer.

“Was it the same guy?” she asked. Quiet.

Nathan looked up. “What?”

“The guy who hurt you. From before. The one you didn’t do anything about. Did you, like, see him again?”

Nathan’s throat closed. “...Yeah.”

Amber didn’t push. Just nodded. “Well. Walls don’t hit back. But they also don’t, um, don’t go to jail. So I guess that’s smart.”

She finished bandaging him. Wrote a script.

“Take these. All of them. And if you punch another wall, I’m, like, I’m calling psych. Got it?”

“Got it.”

She was leaving when he said, “Amber?”

She turned.

“Thanks. For, um... for not treating me like I’m an idiot. Even though I am.”

She tilted her head. “You’re not an idiot, Nathan. You’re just... you’re carrying something heavy. And you’re, like, really bad at putting it down.”

Then she was gone.

Nathan sat there with antibiotics in his hand and her words in his head.

Carrying something heavy.

Yeah.

About ten years of it.

He wasn’t ready to put it down yet.

But maybe... maybe he could stop adding to it.

-