Chapter 1 - The Name on the Hull
Grant Halvorson stood motionless on the teak deck, his fingers still sticky with vintage champagne. The breeze coming off Narragansett Bay whipped across the boat, suddenly carrying a chill that had nothing to do with the late-afternoon sun. Around him, the laughter that had fueled his ego for three hours evaporated into the hum of twin diesel engines shifting pitch.
""Who owns the company?"" Grant repeated, his voice dropping into a register that was meant to intimidate board members and young associates in Manhattan.
Celeste Reed pulled a crisp linen towel from beneath the polished mahogany bar. With slow, deliberate movements, she blotted the champagne from her forehead, her collarbones, and the dripping ends of her blond hair. She did not flinch, and she did not look down.
""Reed Marine Enterprises,"" Celeste said, her tone as cool and level as undisturbed sea water. ""Which is a wholly owned subsidiary of Blue Meridian Holdings. Both of which belong entirely to me.""
A muffled gasp broke from the seating area behind them. Sadie Monroe’s phone was still angled upward, though her manicured hands were visibly shaking. On her screen, the viewer count was spiking past ten thousand. Comments were rolling by at a blur: Wait did she just say she owns the yacht? Bro poured wine on the CEO. Someone tell me this is staged.
Grant’s eyes flicked to the polished brass plate mounted on the bulkhead near the companionway. Engraved upon it in flowing script was the vessel’s christened name: Seraphina.
""Named after my grandmother,"" Celeste added, laying the damp towel neatly beside the ruined hundred-dollar bill Grant had tossed onto the counter. ""She worked galleys on boats half this size for thirty-one years so that one day her granddaughter wouldn't have to take orders from men who mistake an inheritance for an achievement.""
Grant’s face turned an ugly, mottled shade of crimson. ""You’re lying. You're a hired deckhand playing games because your feelings got hurt over a prank. I know Marcus Vance in yacht brokerage. I know the owner of Newport Yacht Club. Nobody named Celeste Reed runs Blue Meridian.""
""You don't know who owns Blue Meridian because I deliberately keep my name off the press releases, Mr. Halvorson,"" an icy voice interrupted from the corner of the deck.
Evelyn Cross stood up from her lounge chair. She smoothed the front of her tailored cream suit, completely ignoring the wind that tousled her silver hair. Her posture was erect, aristocratic, and radiating absolute disgust.
Grant turned toward her, seeking an ally. ""Evelyn, tell this woman to turn the boat back toward the Vineyard. This is insane. She's humiliating us in front of my guests.""
Evelyn walked slowly toward the bar. She didn't look at Grant. She looked directly at Celeste, nodding with deep, familiar respect.
""Good afternoon, Celeste,"" Evelyn said quietly.
""Good afternoon, Evelyn,"" Celeste replied. ""I apologize for the disruption to your afternoon. I usually take a shift on Seraphina once a month to inspect crew operations firsthand. I didn't anticipate our guest of honor behaving like an untamed adolescent.""
Grant’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. The Atlantic breeze seemed to catch in his throat.
Evelyn Cross was the managing partner of Cross Horizon Ventures. She held the master debt covenants on Grant’s fledgling green-tech logistics startup—a company that was bleeding four hundred thousand dollars a month and desperately required her twelve-million-dollar Series B injection to make Friday's payroll.
""You... you know each other?"" Grant stammered, pointing a trembling finger between them.
""Celeste is my majority limited partner, Grant,"" Evelyn said, her voice cutting through the thumping house music that Noah Blake had just abruptly silenced from the control console. ""She funds forty percent of my maritime innovation pool. In fact, she personally reviewed your pitch deck last Thursday and gave me provisional permission to draft your term sheet.""
May you like
Evelyn paused, letting the silence hang over the deck like a suspended anchor.
""Needless to say,"" Evelyn concluded, taking her sunglasses from her pocket and sliding them over her eyes, ""that term sheet will never be signed.""
