Chapter 9 - Settling the Score
Arthur turned slowly to face the remaining members of the board. The air in the room was so thick you could choke on it. The directors who had seconded Rollins's motions were sweating through their bespoke shirts, their faces pale with dread.
"Eighty-four people," Arthur said, his voice cutting through the silence like a scalpel.
Nobody answered.
"Eighty-four warehouse workers at Northstar were scheduled to be laid off this morning to cover the shortfall from Peter's embezzlement," Arthur continued, leaning over the table. "You all signed the authorization without reading the fine print. You were willing to ruin eighty-four families just to see your dividends tick up a quarter of a point."
"Arthur," the oldest board member stammered, his hands shaking on the glass. "We didn't know... Rollins assured us—"
"You didn't care to ask," Arthur cut him off. "Every director who voted with Rollins over the past six months will submit their formal resignation by five o'clock today. If your letter is not on my desk by then, I will authorize a forensic audit of every transaction you've approved for the last decade."
He didn't wait for their response. He turned on his heel and walked out of the boardroom.
"Come on, Emma," he called over his shoulder.
I followed him out into the private lobby, leaving behind sixteen humbled titans of industry who looked like they had just survived a shipwreck.
Down on the street level, the Manhattan sun was high and bright. The morning rush had settled into a steady hum of taxis and pedestrians. Arthur stopped near the brass-framed entrance of the tower, taking a deep, long breath of the cool October air.
For the first time since I had encountered him in the Aster Room, his shoulders weren't hunched with tension. The anger was gone.
"Where are we going?" I asked, adjusting my coat against the chill.
Arthur looked down at me, a soft, genuine smile transforming his entire face. "First, we're going to pay a debt."
Thirty minutes later, the Maybach pulled up in front of the Hawthorne. Henri Duval was standing near the valet station, looking visibly sick with worry, while Gregory stood beside him, clutching his service vest in his hands.
When Arthur stepped out of the vehicle, Henri immediately bowed, trembling. "Mr. Caldwell... sir... please, whatever damage occurred last night, I will personally cover—"
"Be quiet, Henri," Arthur said, though his tone was warm.
He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a pristine checkbook, and scribbled across a page with a gold fountain pen. He tore it off and handed it to Gregory.
Gregory looked down at the check. His eyes went wide, and his knees visibly buckled. "Mr. Caldwell... this is... this is two hundred thousand dollars."
"That is for thirty-eight years of impeccable service, Gregory," Arthur said softly. "And an apology for my inexcusable temper last night. You are officially retired, effective immediately, with full benefits paid by Caldwell International for the rest of your life."
May you like
Gregory broke down into quiet, grateful tears, clutching the check to his chest.
Then, Arthur reached into his pocket once more, pulled out a single five-dollar bill, and turned to me.
