Chapter 16 - Derek’s CounterattackDerek Ward was arrested quietly and released loudly.
His lawyers filed statements before breakfast. By noon, he was a victim of family betrayal. By dinner, he was a whistleblower who had tried to protect the Ashford Foundation from Elliott’s criminal past.
It was brilliant.
Horrible, but brilliant.
He accused Elliott of using the foundation to bury illegal port money. He claimed Rowan’s recordings were manipulated. He claimed I had been paid to create a public sympathy distraction.
Then he released a photo of me leaving the university in Elliott’s SUV.
The internet did the rest.
Gold digger.
Scammer.
Fake savior.
Trauma opportunist.
My inbox filled with threats and proposals, sometimes from the same men.
By the third day, I stopped checking.
By the fourth, I smashed my phone against my couch cushion and screamed into a pillow until my downstairs neighbor hit the ceiling with a broom.
I was still breathing hard when someone knocked on my apartment door.
Not police.
Not media.
A small, careful knock.
I looked through the peephole.
Rowan.
Alone.
Panic shot through me.
I opened the door. “How did you get here?”
He held up his phone.
MAP.
“You came alone?”
He nodded.
“Does Elliott know?”
A pause.
Then he wrote:
NOT YET.
“Oh my God.”
I pulled him inside before the hallway cameras could become another headline.
My apartment had never felt smaller. Second-floor walk-up. Radiator heat. Drafty windows. Books stacked under the table because I had run out of shelves. Models made from cardboard and basswood lined the walls.
Rowan looked around with intense focus.
Not judging.
Mapping.
He stopped in front of a half-finished studio model: a community library designed for a flood-prone neighborhood.
He pointed.
“Water line wrong,” he said.
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
He pointed to the elevated entrance. “People won’t go there during rain.”
I stared at the model.
He was right.
I hated that he was right so quickly.
Then my old phone, cracked but functional, buzzed from the floor.
Unknown number.
I answered before thinking.
Derek’s voice purred through the speaker.
“Touching. He visits the poor girl.”
I went cold.
Rowan looked up.
Derek continued, “Check your window.”
I turned.
Across the street, a man in a parked car lifted a camera.
Rowan moved away from the window instantly.
I closed the curtains.
“You’re stalking us,” I said.
“No. I’m documenting a conspiracy.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m free,” Derek said. “There’s a difference.”
Rowan took the phone from my hand.
For one moment, I thought he would hang up.
Instead, he spoke.
“You lost.”
Silence.
Then Derek laughed softly.
“No, cousin. I learned.”
The call ended.
Within twenty minutes, Elliott’s security arrived. Elliott himself came with them, furious in a way that made even Mercer quiet.
He did not yell at Rowan.
That surprised me.
He stood in my living room, surrounded by my cheap furniture and architecture models, and said, “You scared me.”
Rowan wrote:
I NEEDED TO SEE HER PLACE.
Elliott read the sentence.
“Why?”
Rowan looked at my library model.
Then at me.
“Because Derek won’t stop at reputation.”
I felt cold.
Elliott turned to Mercer.
“Say it.”
Mercer hesitated.
Then he looked at me.
“Derek’s people have been asking about your father.”
My mouth went dry.
“My father is dead.”
“Yes,” Mercer said. “But before he died, he worked dock construction for a Ward subcontractor.”
The room tilted.
I gripped the back of a chair.
“What?”
Elliott’s face had gone still.
Mercer continued carefully.
“His accident report may not have been complete.”
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Rowan opened the brass puzzle.
From inside, he removed a folded photocopy.
He handed it to me.
It was an old site incident report.
May you like
My father’s name was at the top.
And Derek Ward’s signature was at the bottom.
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