Chapter 8 - The Ghost of Lincoln Park
February brought biting winds and heavy snow blankets across the city, but inside Vanguard Brands, things were moving at lightning speed.
We were three weeks out from our official product launch when the past decided to make one final, pathetic reappearance.
I was working late at the office, the rest of the team having cleared out around seven. The loft was quiet, save for the hum of the HVAC system and the soft ambient music playing from my desk speakers.
My cell phone buzzed on the corner of the desk.
An unknown number. Again.
I stared at it for a moment, debating whether to ignore it, before sliding my thumb across to accept. I figured if it was Grant trying another desperate burner phone maneuver, I would let Sarah Sterling handle the harassment injunction.
“Hello?” I said evenly.
A heavy, ragged sigh echoed on the other end of the line.
“Avery?”
It was Grant. His voice sounded hollow, stripped of all the arrogant, magnetic charm he used to project in crowded rooms. He sounded like a ghost haunting the ruins of a life he had burned down himself.
“Grant,” I said, my tone flat, devoid of anger, pity, or surprise. “How did you get this number? My assistant screens all incoming business calls.”
“I’m calling from a payphone, Avery,” he muttered bitterly. “Not that it matters. My apartment lease ended last week. I had to move back in with my parents in the suburbs. Northline House is officially dissolved. The domain name was picked up by some random wellness blog yesterday.”
I didn't interrupt. I let him speak, watching the city lights flicker outside my office window.
“I saw the press release about Vanguard Brands,” Grant continued, his voice cracking with a mix of despair and lingering disbelief. “Venture Peak backing your Series A rollout nationwide. You’re... you’re on the cover of Midwest Business Weekly this month.”
“I am,” I said simply.
“You destroyed me, Avery,” he whispered, the old victim narrative creeping back into his tone, desperate to shift the blame. “You took everything I built and you just... you took it all away because of a stupid joke at a party.”
That was the breaking point. The moment where I realized he had learned absolutely nothing.
“No, Grant,” I said, my voice cutting through the telephone wire like ice. “I didn't take anything from you. You never built anything in the first place. You built a house of cards out of stolen ideas, inflated ego, and emotional exploitation, and you expected me to stand in the corner holding the walls up forever while you called me inferior.”
Silence stretched across the line—heavy, suffocating, and absolute.
“I hope you find whatever validation you’re looking for, Grant,” I continued calmly. “Because you’re never going to find it by stealing someone else’s brain. Lose my number.”
May you like
I tapped the red button, ending the call for good.
I didn't block the number this time. I didn't need to. Grant Mercer was no longer a threat, no longer a partner, and no longer a ghost in my life. He was just a distant, irrelevant memory of a version of myself I had finally outgrown.
