Chapter 17 - The Lawsuit With My Name on It
The complaint was eighty-six pages.
I read all of them.
Twice.
Three former employees accused Laurent Group of wage violations, retaliation, improper classification, and systematic denial of design credit during the company’s expansion years.
My name appeared 137 times.
Some allegations I remembered differently.
Others I did not remember at all.
That was not the defense I once believed it was.
Richard wanted immediate aggressive litigation.
Grace wanted preservation of records and independent review.
Our insurers wanted carefully controlled statements.
The board wanted predictability.
Employees wanted to know whether their jobs were safe.
By lunch, reporters stood outside headquarters.
At two, I walked into a company-wide meeting.
No stage.
No dramatic lighting.
Just hundreds of people in the largest sample room, with additional staff watching remotely.
I had written remarks.
I put them down.
“Some of you have read the lawsuit.”
People shifted.
“I’m not going to tell you that every allegation is accurate. We don’t know that yet.”
Richard watched from the back.
“I’m also not going to tell you that the company did nothing wrong. We already know that would be false.”
The room became still.
“We will investigate. We will cooperate with lawful discovery. We will not retaliate against anyone who participates.”
A hand rose.
A young production coordinator.
“What if this bankrupts us?”
Nobody breathed.
I could have reassured her.
Instead, I told the truth.
“I don’t expect that outcome. But I cannot promise there will be no cost.”
Her face tightened.
“What about layoffs?”
“We are not announcing layoffs.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I recognized the courage required to say that to me.
“No,” I said. “It isn’t.”
I looked around.
“If financial conditions change, you will hear it directly. Not through gossip. Not after executives protect themselves first.”
Richard’s jaw tightened.
Afterward, he cornered me.
“You just created panic.”
“They were already afraid.”
“You amplified it.”
“I answered.”
“You are emotionally incapable of protecting this company.”
That sentence would once have started a war.
Instead, I asked, “Protect it from what?”
“From you.”
For a second, neither of us spoke.
Then he said, “There will be another leadership vote.”
“I assumed.”
That evening, I had dinner scheduled with Isabelle.
Not romantic.
At least we had not called it that.
She had invited me to the reopened Bell & Thread classroom.
There were takeout containers on the cutting table.
For twenty minutes, we talked about sewing machines.
Students.
A broken radiator.
Then she asked, “How bad is the lawsuit?”
“Potentially bad.”
“Do you think the claims are true?”
“Some probably are.”
She put down her fork.
“And the rest?”
“I don’t know.”
“That must be difficult.”
I almost laughed.
“Not knowing?”
“For you.”
She knew me too well.
“Yes.”
I had always treated uncertainty like an insult.
Something to conquer quickly.
She leaned back.
“What happens if the board removes you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would you survive?”
The question startled me.
Financially?
Obviously.
Professionally?
Probably.
Personally?
Two years earlier, Laurent had been my entire identity.
Without it, I had imagined myself disappearing.
Now I thought of Claire’s table.
My nephew’s concert.
The community college workshop.
Therapy.
Isabelle sitting across from me because she chose to.
“Yes,” I said slowly. “I think I would.”
Her eyes changed.
“Good.”
“That doesn’t mean I want it.”
“It shouldn’t.”
We ate in silence for a moment.
Then she said, “Do you remember the winter we almost lost the first studio?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t sleep for three days.”
“I remember.”
“I thought that was love.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“The obsession. The panic. The sacrifice.”
She traced one finger through condensation on her water glass.
“I thought if you cared that much about the company, it meant you cared that much about our future.”
My throat tightened.
“I did.”
“I know.”
She looked at me.
“That’s the complicated part.”
We were quiet again.
At nine, I helped carry empty containers to the trash.
Before leaving, Isabelle touched my arm.
“Gabriel.”
“Yes?”
“If you lose the company, don’t make it mean you lost everything.”
I looked at her hand.
Then at her.
“I won’t.”
The next morning, the board scheduled the vote.
Friday.
Three days away.
At noon Thursday, Grace called.
“We found something.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“An email chain relevant to the retaliation claim.”
“From me?”
“No.”
Relief arrived.
Grace continued.
May you like
“But it was sent to you.”
And suddenly relief became something worse.
