Chapter 7 - The Broken Suitor
Richard Harrington did not look like the proud patriarch who had sipped scotch in Lake Forest two nights ago. His tie was crooked, his shirt was rumpled, and his eyes were bloodshot from crying.
When he entered the boardroom and saw me sitting next to Arthur, he stopped dead in his tracks.
“Sarah...” he whispered, his hands trembling as he reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. “Sarah, please. My son is at home destroying himself. He hasn't eaten in forty-eight hours. Linda is in a holding cell awaiting her arraignment because the judge set bail at five hundred thousand dollars cash, which our frozen accounts can't touch!”
“Take a seat, Richard,” Arthur said, his voice void of warmth.
Richard collapsed into the leather chair at the far end of the table, looking like a drowning man grasping at sea foam. “Arthur, we have known each other for thirty years! My father helped you secure your first municipal bond in Peoria! You cannot execute my family over this!”
“Your family executed itself, Richard,” I said, cutting through his pleas like a scalpel.
Richard looked at me, bewildered. “Sarah, you loved Daniel! You built a home together! He made a terrible, cowardly mistake, yes, but he was caught between his mother and his wife! Men make mistakes!”
“Cowardice is not a mistake, Richard,” I replied, my voice chillingly clear. “It is a character defect. When your wife grabbed my wrist, Daniel looked away. When she struck me, he didn't move. When scalding soup burned my skin and terrified our four-year-old child, he told me I provoked her. That was not a momentary lapse of judgment. That was an unveiling of who he truly is.”
Eleanor slid the acquisition document across the glass table. It landed in front of Richard with a heavy, final sound.
“What is this?” Richard asked, staring at the paper.
“This is your salvation,” Eleanor said. “And your resignation.”
Richard read the terms. His eyes widened, darting back and forth across the pages as the horror set in. “You’re... you’re taking ninety-two percent of the equity? You’re dissolving the Harrington name? You’re terminating Daniel’s executive contract without severance?”
“Daniel will receive the statutory two weeks’ pay for an entry-level logistics coordinator,” I said. “Nothing more.”
“And my personal holdings?” Richard’s voice was barely a croak.
“Your Lake Forest home is encumbered by the second mortgage you took out last year to fund Daniel’s failed software venture,” Arthur reminded him coldly. “We now own that note. You have sixty days to vacate the premises before Vance Asset Management lists it on the private market.”
Richard buried his face in his hands. A dry, choking sob echoed in the pristine boardroom. “We will have nothing left. Nothing. My wife will never survive this.”
“Your wife should have thought about that before she raised her hand against my daughter,” Arthur said, standing up. “Sign the agreement, Richard. Or the bailiffs will padlock your distribution centers by noon.”
With shaking fingers, Richard pulled an antique Montblanc pen from his pocket. His hand shook so violently that his signature looked like the erratic trace of an earthquake on paper.
When he finished, he pushed the document back.
He didn't look at Arthur. He looked at me, his eyes hollowed by total defeat. “Sarah... will Daniel ever see his daughter again?”
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“Daniel can petition the court for supervised visitation,” I said, rising from my chair. “At an approved family services facility. Once a month. Accompanied by a court-appointed social worker. If he is five minutes late, the session is cancelled. That is the exact amount of mercy he showed me.”
***
