The Price of an Image
The following Monday, Julian sat at the worn pine table in the farmhouse kitchen with his legal team on speakerphone.
"Julian, Vance Capital is demanding a $12 million penalty for breaking the joint development covenant on the Hudson Yards parcel," his chief corporate counsel stated. "They are threatening to freeze the project."
"Let them freeze it," Julian answered without looking up from the wooden toy train he was repairing for Lily.
"Julian, that's nearly thirty percent of your liquid capital," the lawyer warned. "It will set your firm back five years."
"Then we'll build for five years," Julian said calmly. "Sell the Fifth Avenue penthouse. Sell the Hamptons property. Liquidate the vintage car collection. Pay their penalty in full by Friday at five o'clock. I want every contract with Marcus Vance burned to the ground."
When he hung up the phone, the silence in the farmhouse was profound.
Elena was at the stove, stirring a pot of steel-cut oats with cinnamon and dried apples. She turned around and set a mug of black coffee in front of him.
"You just gave away half your empire," she noted quietly.
Julian looked down at the coffee, watching the steam rise toward the exposed timber beams of the ceiling.
"I didn't give away an empire, Elena," he said, taking a sip. "I bought back my soul. For three years, I thought I was building a fortress to keep Lily safe from poverty and pain. But I was just building a gilded cage."
"And what will you build now?" she asked.
May you like
Julian looked out the window. Outside, the morning sun was burning off the river mist, illuminating sixty acres of overgrown, resilient apple trees waiting for winter pruning.
"Something with roots," Julian smiled.
