Chapter 6 - EIGHT PERCENTThe Mercer estate was quiet the following morning.
Evelyn sat on the rear terrace wearing one of Harrison’s old cashmere sweaters over her pajamas.
A cup of coffee cooled between her hands.
She had slept less than two hours.
Every time she closed her eyes she saw Blake’s face.
Not angry.
That would have been easier.
Cold.
That was worse.
Anger could pass.
Coldness was a decision.
Harrison stepped outside.
“Coffee?”
“I have some.”
“You’re not drinking it.”
“I’m thinking at it.”
He sat across from her.
For several minutes they listened to birds moving through the trees.
Finally Evelyn asked, “Did he ask?”
“Yes.”
“About the papers?”
“Not directly.”
“But he saw the envelope.”
“Yes.”
She sighed.
Eight percent.
To most families, the number sounded small.
Within Mercer Holdings, it represented enormous power.
The company had started with Harrison’s father, who owned two regional construction businesses in the 1970s.
Harrison transformed it over four decades into a privately controlled conglomerate involving commercial property, hospitality investment, logistics, and infrastructure.
He still held effective control.
Evelyn owned a meaningful block.
Several trusts held additional shares.
Blake owned only a minor economic interest.
The planned transfer would have changed that.
Not enough to control Mercer Holdings.
Enough to matter.
Enough for directors and bankers to view him as more than the founder’s son.
Enough to make a future chairmanship plausible.
“You were really going to sign it last night?”
“Yes.”
“And now?”
“No.”
Evelyn looked down.
“Harrison, I don’t want you using company decisions to punish him for hurting me.”
“I’m not.”
“It looks like punishment.”
“It is judgment.”
“That sounds convenient.”
He accepted that.
Then asked, “Would you hire a CEO who reacted to conflict by physically pushing a sixty-year-old woman into a wall because she was embarrassing him?”
Evelyn didn’t answer.
“Would you trust him to negotiate under pressure?”
“No.”
“Would you give him control over thousands of employees?”
She rubbed her forehead.
“No.”
“Then neither will I.”
The logic was clean.
That didn’t make it painless.
Harrison continued.
“The transfer was not his inheritance. It was not money I owed him. It was voting power I intended to give him because I believed he was ready.”
“And now you don’t.”
“No.”
The terrace door opened.
Their housekeeper leaned outside.
“Mrs. Mercer? There’s a delivery.”
Flowers.
White roses.
From Blake and Sloane.
Evelyn read the card.
Sorry things became tense last night. We love you. Hope we can all move forward.
No mention of the slap.
No mention of the push.
No apology.
Harrison read it over her shoulder.
“Efficient.”
Evelyn gave him a warning look.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You said it with your face.”
He sat again.
She reread the card.
Something bothered her.
Not merely the non-apology.
The wording.
Move forward.
As if the problem were inconvenience.
As if both sides had contributed equally.
Evelyn stood.
“I need to show you something.”
She walked upstairs.
Harrison followed her into the study.
Evelyn opened a drawer beneath her desk.
Inside was a printout.
A screenshot.
Harrison took it.
It showed a text message between Sloane and her mother, Cassandra Carlisle.
Once Blake has the shares, everything changes.
Harrison looked up.
“How did you get this?”
“Accident.”
She explained.
Three weeks earlier, Sloane had left her phone on the kitchen island while trying on jewelry Evelyn had offered for the wedding.
A message notification appeared.
Evelyn hadn’t opened the phone.
She didn’t need to.
The preview showed enough.
Later, frightened she might be imagining things, she wrote the sentence down.
Then photographed the note.
“You didn’t tell me.”
“Blake begged me not to.”
Harrison’s expression hardened.
“He knew you saw it?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“That Sloane was talking about their future. That I was being suspicious because I didn’t like her.”
“And you believed him?”
“I wanted to.”
Harrison looked again at the screenshot.
“Why print it?”
“Because something in me didn’t believe him.”
The admission seemed to shame her.
Harrison set the paper down.
“There’s nothing shameful about wanting to believe your child.”
“I protected him.”
“Yes.”
“From you.”
“No.”
She looked at him.
“From himself.”
That was worse.
Evelyn sat.
Harrison studied the sentence again.
Once Blake has the shares, everything changes.
He had spent his career learning to distinguish ambition from entitlement.
Ambition worked.
Entitlement waited.
May you like
Blake had spent years telling him he was ambitious.
Now Harrison wondered which one his son had actually become.
Related Stories
