Chapter 9 - The Boardroom Reversal
Three days after the gala, the executive boardroom on the forty-fourth floor of the Lindell Financial Tower in downtown Boston was silent except for the low hum of the climate control and the rustle of high-grade parchment.
The view outside was breathtaking—a panoramic sweep of Boston Harbor under a crisp autumn sky, the sun reflecting off the deep blue water like shattered glass.
Across the massive walnut conference table sat Richard Holloway, his father, Jonathan Holloway, and their chief legal counsel. Jonathan Holloway was seventy-one, with thinning silver hair and the weathered, anxious face of a patriarch who had realized too late that he had steered his family ship onto the rocks.
Next to them sat Eleanor and Victoria.
Victoria was wearing a simple, conservative gray dress that looked like it had been pulled off the rack at a department store. Her eyes were swollen, red-rimmed, and devoid of the fiery, arrogant spark that had defined her for years. She sat with her hands folded tightly in her lap, looking at the tabletop, unable to meet my gaze. Eleanor looked ten years older, the lines around her mouth etched deep with humiliation.
My attorney, David Croft, sat beside me, closing a thick leather binder with a satisfying, authoritative thud.
“The audit is complete, Mr. Holloway,” Croft said, addressing Jonathan. “Holloway Maritime’s liabilities exceed its current market capitalization by twenty-seven percent. If Aurelius Capital calls the notes due tomorrow, your company enters involuntary Chapter 11 bankruptcy. Your assets will be liquidated to satisfy the primary lienholders. The family’s personal guarantees will consume the Newport estate and the trust accounts.”
Jonathan Holloway closed his eyes, a heavy, defeated sigh escaping his chest. “I know, David. I know.” He opened his eyes and looked down the table at me. There was no condescension in his gaze. Only the desperate humility of an old man begging for his family’s survival.
“Maya,” Jonathan said, his voice raspy. “I won’t make excuses for my son, and I certainly won’t make excuses for your sister’s behavior at the gala. It was disgraceful. But Holloway Maritime employs four hundred people in New Bedford and Portland. If we go under, those dockworkers, those logistics managers—they lose their pensions. Their livelihoods.”
“I’m aware of your employees, Jonathan,” I said, my voice calm, even, and deliberate. “If I didn’t care about them, I would have liquidated your company three months ago and sold the cargo ships for scrap metal.”
Richard looked up, a glimmer of desperate hope breaking through his misery. “You... you aren’t going to liquidate?”
“No,” I said. “I’m not a monster, Richard. And unlike your wife, I don’t take pleasure in watching people suffer simply because I have the power to cause it.”
Victoria flinched, pulling her shoulders in tighter, but she didn’t utter a word.
“Here are my terms,” I continued, gesturing to Croft, who slid three copies of a restructuring agreement across the polished wood. “Aurelius Capital will convert twelve million dollars of debt into fifty-one percent non-voting preferred equity. Jonathan, you will remain as Chairman Emeritus in an advisory capacity. Richard, you are stepping down from the executive board immediately.”
Richard swallowed hard, but nodded. “I understand.”
“You will take a position as an associate regional operations manager at our terminal in Portsmouth,” I said coldly. “You will punch a timecard. You will earn an entry-level manager’s salary of eighty-five thousand dollars a year. You will learn how your business actually works from the bottom up, instead of drinking three-hundred-dollar champagne at charity galas while your company bleeds to death.”
Victoria gasped, looking up in sheer terror. “Eighty-five thousand? Maya, our mortgage on the Boston brownstone is thirty thousand a month! How are we supposed to live on that?!”
May you like
I turned my head and looked directly into my sister’s eyes.
“You’re selling the brownstone, Victoria,” I said without a trace of mercy. “You’re selling the jewelry you bought with company credit cards. You’re selling the sports car. You’re moving into a two-bedroom rental in Portsmouth. And if you don't like it, you are welcome to file for divorce, walk away with nothing, and find out how much society values a woman who brings nothing to the table except cruelty and perfume.”
