Chapter 3: The Morality Clause

Mari read the disputed agreement three times before calling anyone.

On the fourth reading, fear became analysis.

The signature page came from a continuing-education reimbursement form she had signed while working at West Performance Recovery. The page number in its footer read six. Cal’s alleged intellectual-property agreement had only four pages. The typeface matched, but the paper margins did not.

He had built a lie from something real.

Mari photographed every page, sealed the original in a document bag, and called attorney Lena Cross, who had negotiated the clinic lease. Then she called Sana. Only after those two calls did she return Ben’s message.

Her brother arrived twenty minutes later with Theo behind him.

“Why is he here?” Mari asked.

Ben pointed at Theo. “He refused to tell me what happened yesterday.”

“That is not an answer.”

“He said it belonged to you.” Ben paced across the reception area. “Then a gossip account posted photographs from this morning, and Cal’s company issued a statement about unethical poaching. Tell me what I’m missing.”

Mari looked at Theo. “Wait in the hall.”

He left immediately.

Ben noticed. His face tightened, not with suspicion but realization. “Did Cal hurt you?”

“He cornered me. I handled it.”

“Mari—”

“Theo helped after asking permission. Security removed Cal. That is all you need today.”

Ben stopped pacing. “I should have protected you years ago.”

“You tried to punch my problem until it became quiet enough for everyone except me.” She held up the lawsuit. “I need a brother who can listen. Can you do that?”

He sat.

Mari explained the forged agreement and the relief Cal sought: an emergency injunction preventing the clinic from opening, control of its proprietary recovery protocols, and damages for supposed theft of clients. Ben offered money for lawyers. She told him Lena was already working. He offered team investigators. She asked him to identify every occasion on which Cal had accessed racing-team events and facilities.

“That I can do,” Ben said.

“Without confronting him.”

His jaw shifted. “Without confronting him.”

Theo remained in the hall until Mari invited him back. He entered holding coffee for Ben and tea for her, but set both on a table rather than handing hers to her.

“Your photographs are being framed as a secret appointment,” Ben said.

“Then release the truth,” Theo replied. “I injured my wrist at the charity demonstration and sought an independent assessment.”

“That confirms the injury before qualifying.”

“The injury exists whether sponsors know or not.”

Mari studied him. A world champion’s body was corporate property in every practical sense. Sponsors insured it, teams measured it, broadcasters sold its danger. Theo had reported the injury because she told him to, even knowing the financial consequence.

Lena arrived with bad news.

“The forgery is challengeable,” she said, spreading documents across the bare reception counter. “But Cal does not need to win the ownership case immediately. He only needs enough uncertainty to frighten your landlord.”

Mari’s lease came from Greenline Properties, a fund that specialized in medical spaces. Its discounted rent depended on a professional-conduct provision. Any credible allegation of fraud, exploitation, or conduct likely to damage the building’s reputation allowed suspension before adjudication.

“A morality clause,” Ben said with disgust.

“A broadly drafted one,” Lena answered. “Your landlord sent notice twelve minutes ago. They want a response by tomorrow afternoon.”

Mari read the notice. Cal’s ownership claim alone was not enough. The letter also cited photographs of her receiving a famous athlete in an unopened clinic, outside stated business hours, without visible staff.

Cal had timed the lawsuit to the photographs.

“He knew Theo would come,” she said.

Theo looked at the street-facing windows. “The photographers were waiting before I arrived.”

“Cal knew about your wrist.” Ben stood. “Someone at the event told him.”

“Or he saw the blood yesterday,” Mari said. “He knew Theo might seek treatment from the person already there.”

The trap was elegant because it used legal ambiguity rather than a dramatic lie. Cal would call Mari unstable, opportunistic, and professionally compromised. If the clinic failed before opening, most people would remember only that it failed.

“We answer with records,” Mari said. “Theo’s signed intake. My referral to his team physician. His injury disclosure. The time-stamped scan.”

Lena nodded. “That defeats the secret-treatment insinuation. It doesn’t resolve the broader reputation concern.”

“What would?” Ben asked.

“Independent governance. An ethics board. Capital sufficient to reassure the landlord. A public position that makes the scandal less profitable.”

Theo had been silent. Now he said, “Richter Foundation can guarantee the lease.”

Mari shook her head. “No.”

“It would be documented, not a gift.”

“Cal already says I trade access to athletes. Your foundation taking financial control proves his story.”

“Then you retain control.”

“People won’t read the documents before deciding.”

Theo accepted that without argument. “What position would they understand?”

Lena closed the lease. “The fund’s board is old-fashioned. Stability matters to them. So does community support.”

Ben swore. “You mean marriage.”

“I mean their clause contains an explicit exception for reputational events arising from a tenant’s lawful family association. It was designed to protect doctors married to politicians or public figures.”

Mari laughed once, without humor. “So a single woman photographed with a patient is dangerous. A wife is respectable.”

“We can attack the clause,” Lena said. “That will take months.”

“I have six days before payroll begins.”

Silence settled over the unfinished clinic.

Theo’s phone rang. His manager’s name appeared on the screen. He declined the call.

“There is another problem,” he said. “My principal sponsor has been pressuring me to present a stable personal image before contract renewal. They believe marriage would increase family-market reach.”

Ben stared at his friend. “Absolutely not.”

Theo ignored him. “A lawful marriage would put Mari within the lease exception. My sponsor’s support would make Greenline reluctant to act. We could define the term and finances in advance.”

Mari felt the room tilt, but she did not freeze. “You are proposing marriage as a public-relations transaction.”

“I’m identifying a structure that may serve both parties.”

“You sound like a tax attorney.”

“I have several.”

Ben stepped between them. “No.”

Mari’s anger found the correct target. “You do not vote.”

Her brother went still.

Theo did not look triumphant. “You should reject it if it costs more than it protects.”

Lena gathered the documents. “If you consider this, each of you needs separate counsel. No shared lawyer. Full financial disclosure. A defined exit. And the arrangement cannot misrepresent medical services.”

“I’m not considering it,” Mari said.

Yet that evening Greenline suspended contractor access. The locksmith disabled Mari’s entry code while she stood on the pavement beneath her own sign. Inside were treatment tables purchased with her savings and protocols built over ten years.

Her phone displayed a message from Cal.

Come home. I can make the lawsuit disappear.

Then Greenline sent the full lease file.

The final page contained the exception Lena had mentioned—and a deadline of forty-eight hours before termination became irrevocable.

Mari looked through the glass at the clinic Cal expected her to surrender.

For the first time, Theo’s impossible proposal looked less like rescue.

It looked like a weapon she could define for herself.