Chapter 5

Emma’s POV

When I came downstairs the next morning, Adrian was already reading the newspaper at the dining table.

He set it down when he saw me and told Maggie to bring me oatmeal, as though nothing had happened. “Did you sleep well? You haven’t looked well these past few days. I had Ethan speak to the maritime office and the archive. All your restoration projects and outside engagements have been suspended. Stay home and get some rest. Don’t pay attention to the noise online.”

My hand paused around my water glass.

I looked up at him. “You suspended my work at the archive?”

“It’s only two weeks off.” He cut his fried egg unhurriedly, his tone as calm as if he were discussing the weather. “People are already writing nonsense about the launch. If you go to the archive now, you’ll only give reporters a chance to corner you. Be good. Stay home for a few days. We’ll talk when you’ve calmed down.”

He didn’t even see it as confinement or punishment. He genuinely believed taking away my work and keeping me at home was a way of protecting me.

I didn’t slam the table or demand answers as I had the previous two days. I simply lowered my eyes, finished my warm water, and said quietly, “Understood.”

Much of the coldness left his face. He stood, walked over, and rubbed the top of my head. “I’ll come home early for dinner.”

Adrian had barely left when Vivian’s counterattack arrived at ten that morning.

The Hayes Group’s official account and Vivian’s verified personal account simultaneously posted a five-minute behind-the-scenes documentary.

In the video, Vivian stood on a windblown rocky beach in a plain white shirt, apparently without makeup. Her eyes reddened as she faced the camera. “To find the most authentic waves and navigation signals for The Last Tide, our team spent the past two years visiting more than a dozen abandoned fishing villages along the coast. People ask why we insist on including old rescue recordings. Because if we don’t bring them somewhere the public can hear them, the people who died at sea will truly be forgotten…”

Comments poured in beneath the video. Several pointed exposé posts quickly climbed into the top ten trending searches:

[Insider reveal: An audio restorer, Ms. B, is using her father’s death at sea to turn public rescue recordings into a cash cow. After demanding an outrageous licensing fee and being refused, she caused a scene at the company’s launch!]

[Disgusting! Ms. Clarke’s team works so hard to preserve our heritage for the public good, and certain family members try to monopolize history and charge whatever they want. Shameless!]

[I heard Ms. B only got her archive job through her husband. She’s never done anything noteworthy herself. Guess she got jealous when Ms. Clarke’s project took off and tried to steal the credit.]

I glanced through the comments and ignored them.

I sat cross-legged on the living room rug with two laptops and a professional tape deck in front of me, frighteningly calm.

Maggie rushed out of the kitchen, her hands shaking with anger.

“Mrs. Hayes, how can they twist the truth like this? Call your husband! Make him do something about that woman!” Her eyes were red with frustration.

“What would calling him accomplish?” I didn’t look up, my fingers flying over the keyboard. “Those stories couldn’t have gone out without the company’s PR department. He allowed it.”

Adrian would never let anyone question the legality of The Last Tide. If the controversy couldn’t be suppressed, shifting the blame onto me—the unstable, grieving relative—was the best way to protect both the project and Vivian.

It was the choice that served the Hayes Group.

I didn’t argue with a single hateful comment.

Instead, I spent the afternoon gathering the original audio project files I had backed up years ago on my private offline drives, scans of the original inventory documenting the return of my father’s belongings, and a copy of the contract Adrian had signed without authority. I organized everything chronologically and encrypted the package.

At four, Michael arrived at the villa with two evidence-certification officers. In my study, they formally authenticated and preserved the complete electronic record and copies of the original master tapes, then sealed the documentation.

“Ms. Bennett, the chain of evidence is extremely strong,” Michael said quietly as he put away the certification papers. “In particular, the original creation timestamps and unique hardware identifiers in your Pro Tools files will dismantle their claim that this was a publicly owned archive product. As soon as you decide to proceed, we can seek a temporary injunction to force the infringing videos offline.”

“Prepare the filing. Submit it after I’ve walked out of this house.” I calmly signed the power of attorney.

At six thirty, Adrian came home on time, just as promised.

I was sitting at the table, quietly eating dinner. The television was off, and my phone lay facedown beside me. My expression was peaceful.

He handed an elegantly packaged shopping bag to the housekeeper, took off his jacket, and sat beside me. His voice was almost indulgent. “I passed that old vinyl shop today and spotted the out-of-print 1976 London Symphony Orchestra recording you’ve been looking for. I picked it up for you. Want to listen in the media room after dinner?”

He probably thought this was like every other time. I had vented, made my fuss, and become the sweet, understanding Mrs. Hayes again.

I swallowed, wiped my mouth with my napkin, and glanced at the bag. My voice was light and distant. “Sure. Leave it there for now. Don’t you have that closed-door pre-listing review tomorrow? Get some rest.”

He smiled in satisfaction and squeezed my hand. “I’ll be back the afternoon after tomorrow. Once this trip is over, I’ll take you away for a few days.”

I let him hold my icy fingers.

I neither pulled away nor responded.