Chapter 4: A Fractured Board
The illusion of quiet within Hawthorne Manor shattered on Thursday afternoon when a sleek black Mercedes pulled up the gravel driveway.
Carter Sterling, Julian’s former business partner and the interim CEO of Hawthorne Logistics, strode into the library without waiting for the butler to announce him. Carter was thirty-five, sharp-featured, dressed in an immaculate Italian three-piece suit, and carried a leather folio tucked beneath his arm like an offensive weapon.
"Julian," Carter boomed, his voice echoing off the high book stacks. "You're looking remarkably tanned for a recluse."
Julian didn't turn his chair. He remained positioned by the window, his expression hardening into stone. "State your business, Carter. I have physical therapy in twenty minutes."
Carter pulled up a high-backed leather chair, uninvited, and flipped the folio open. "The board needs your signature on the divestment of the Camden shipyard. A private equity firm from Chicago made an offer: two hundred million cash. It liquidates our maritime manufacturing debt and secures the dividend for the third quarter."
Julian’s jaw clenched. "The Camden shipyard employs eight hundred families, Carter. My grandfather founded that yard. We build coast guard cutters and oceanographic vessels."
"We lose four million a quarter on that yard, Julian," Carter corrected, tapping a fountain pen against the table. "You aren't in the arena anymore. You sit here, play with old books, and let the real world pass you by. The board has the voting power to force this, but your signature makes the public transition clean. Sign the proxy."
From the far end of the room, near the antique atlas cases, the soft sound of a dropped dust cloth broke the tension.
Carter turned his head, his eyes narrowing as he noticed Clara standing by the shelves. "Who is this? Send the staff out, Julian. This is executive business."
Clara did not move. She picked up her cloth, her chin lifting with quiet defiance.
"She stays," Julian said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, icy baritone. "And the answer is no, Carter. I will not sign away the livelihoods of men who worked twenty years for this family so you can buy a summer estate in Martha's Vineyard."
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Carter stood up, his polished veneer peeling away to reveal naked condescension. He leaned over Julian’s chair, lowering his voice. "Look at yourself, Julian. You can't even stand up to shake my hand. You think you’re still the captain? You're a monument in an empty hall. Sign the paper before we petition the probate court to declare you mentally incapacitated by your trauma."
Carter tossed the pen onto Julian's lap, turned on his heel, and walked out of the room, his expensive leather soles clicking aggressively against the parquet.
