Chapter 15 - The Lawsuit
The claim was not yet a lawsuit.
Victor's attorney had sent a cease-and-desist letter threatening one.
The distinction mattered legally.
Emotionally, it didn't.
The letter accused Ms. Reed of disseminating confidential information and making false statements that damaged Victor's reputation and the Banks Foundation.
Malik read it at her dining table.
“This is because you helped me.”
Ms. Reed took the letter back.
“This is because Victor thinks fear works.”
“You could lose your house fighting something like this.”
“So could you.”
Malik fell silent.
That landed.
Renee sat beside him.
“See why guilt is dangerous?”
He frowned.
“It makes everybody responsible for what the bully chooses next.”
Camille reviewed the letter.
“Most of this is intimidation.”
“Most?” Malik asked.
“She copied records. They may argue confidentiality.”
“Was that illegal?”
“Context matters. Whistleblower protections may matter. District policy matters.”
Ms. Reed smiled faintly.
“That's lawyer language for ‘nothing is simple.’”
“Correct.”
Malik hated complexity.
Music made complexity beautiful.
Law made complexity expensive.
The district issued Ms. Reed counsel because her actions occurred within her employment role and related to suspected misconduct.
Victor's threat did not disappear.
But Ms. Reed no longer stood alone.
Meanwhile, the Eastside fundraiser passed $90,000.
A local music company donated repair services.
A retired Jefferson graduate funded the spring musical.
Small businesses contributed.
No one matched Victor's four hundred thousand.
But the fear that Jefferson arts would collapse immediately began fading.
Victor watched the fundraiser total from his office.
Jacqueline entered.
“You're losing.”
He looked up.
“This isn't a game.”
“Then why do you keep treating people like pieces?”
Victor closed his laptop.
“You gave them files.”
It wasn't a question.
Jacqueline did not deny it.
“You betrayed me.”
She almost laughed.
“I protected the foundation from you.”
“I built the foundation.”
“We built it.”
“With my money.”
“With my name too.”
Victor's face hardened.
Jacqueline placed her wedding ring on his desk.
Jordan watched from the doorway.
Neither parent had noticed him.
Victor stared at the ring.
“What are you doing?”
“I don't know yet.”
Jacqueline's voice trembled despite her composure.
“But I know I cannot keep teaching Jordan that love means helping you avoid consequences.”
Victor saw his son.
“Jordan.”
Jordan stepped inside.
Victor gestured toward Jacqueline.
“Tell your mother she's overreacting.”
Jordan's expression was almost sad.
“No.”
Victor seemed genuinely stunned.
Jordan continued.
“I withdrew from the regional competition.”
“What?”
“I sent the notice this morning.”
“You had no nomination.”
“I withdrew from future reconsideration too.”
“You don't make that decision alone.”
“I just did.”
Victor stood.
“Everything I built was for you.”
Jordan's eyes filled.
“I never asked you to build a world where I couldn't lose.”
The sentence broke something in the room.
Victor looked toward his wife.
Then his son.
For the first time, money offered him no useful response.
At Jefferson, Brianna helped catalog fundraiser donations.
Malik entered carrying sheet music.
“You're still doing this?”
She looked up.
“I helped break things.”
“That doesn't mean you spend your life repairing them.”
“No.”
She smiled slightly.
“But I can spend Saturday.”
Malik sat opposite her.
For a few minutes they worked silently.
Then Brianna asked, “Regional audition?”
“Good.”
“Just good?”
“I don't know.”
“You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend wanting something less will make losing hurt less.”
Malik looked at her.
“You become a therapist since losing student council?”
“Free time.”
He laughed.
It was the first genuine laugh they had shared.
Brianna's face softened.
“I am sorry, Malik.”
“I know.”
“I know you don't have to forgive me.”
“I know.”
They returned to work.
After a moment Malik said, “I don't hate you.”
She stopped writing.
“That isn't forgiveness.”
“I know.”
“But it's not nothing.”
“No.”
Her eyes grew wet.
Malik pointed at the spreadsheet.
“You're entering numbers wrong.”
She wiped her eyes.
“Ruined the moment.”
“You're welcome.”
That evening, Malik's regional results arrived.
He opened the email alone.
Dear Mr. Turner,
Congratulations.
You have been selected as one of six finalists for the Halston Conservatory National Young Artists Fellowship.
Malik reread the sentence.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then he screamed.
Renee ran from the kitchen holding a wooden spoon.
“What happened?”
He turned the laptop.
She read.
The spoon dropped.
Renee covered her mouth.
Malik began laughing.
Then crying.
Then she wrapped him in both arms.
For several minutes, there was no Victor.
No Jordan.
No investigation.
No rent.
Only a mother who had heard her son practicing through thin apartment walls for years.
“You did it,” she whispered.
Malik shook his head against her shoulder.
“Finalist.”
“You did it.”
He let himself believe her.
Then he read the final paragraph.
Finalists would perform at a nationally streamed showcase in three weeks.
The winner would receive twenty-five thousand dollars toward college and a fully funded summer residency.
Malik looked toward the cracked keyboard in his room.
Three weeks.
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The biggest performance of his life.
And this time, nobody had decided the result beforehand.
