Chapter 10 - The Price of Severance
By Friday evening, the Savannah rumor mill had completed its work.
The front page of the *Savannah Morning News* business section featured Derek Caldwell’s mugshot under the headline: *“Prominent Real Estate Associate Arrested in Multi-Hundred-Thousand-Dollar Escrow Embezzlement Scheme.”*
The Caldwell & Sterling firm announced an emergency dissolution by noon. Cassandra had fled to my parents’ beach cottage on Tybee Island, her phone disconnected, while my mother had checked into an Atlanta wellness retreat to avoid the social fallout.
At the Montgomery House, the courtyard was bathed in golden twilight. The Henderson wedding rehearsal dinner was in full swing. Laughter, acoustic guitar music, and the clinking of crystal glasses drifted through the open French doors into my office.
Celia walked in carrying two glasses of twenty-year-old single malt scotch. She set one on my desk and raised the other in a silent, exhausted toast.
“To surviving the Sterling family invasion,” she smiled.
I picked up my glass and tapped it against hers. “To keeping our doors open.”
The burn of the whiskey was warm and clean. For the first time in forty-eight hours, the tight, iron knot in my chest loosened. The hotel was safe. My staff was safe. My independence was unquestioned. Arthur Vance had already delivered a ten-year lease extension with a first-right-of-refusal to purchase the deed at a fixed price.
“You did good, boss,” Celia said softly, leaning against the window frame, watching the wedding guests dance in the courtyard. “Most people would have broken when their father threatened them like that.”
“He forgot who raised me,” I replied, looking out at the brick walls covered in blooming night jasmine. “He spent my whole childhood teaching me to be ruthless. He was just furious when I used it against him.”
We sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, listening to the music. The storm had passed. The wolves had been driven back into the dark. I had won everything I had fought for.
Around nine o’clock, after Celia had gone home to get some well-deserved sleep, a quiet knock sounded at my office door.
Marcus entered, holding a flat, heavy manila envelope tied with red twine and sealed with dark red wax.
“What’s this, Marcus?” I asked, setting down my pen.
“A courier just delivered it to the front desk,” Marcus said, his brow furrowed slightly. “He insisted it had to be placed directly into your hands tonight. Said it was forwarded from Derek Caldwell’s private office safe by his court-appointed receiver.”
My smile faded. “Derek’s office safe?”
Marcus handed it to me. The paper was old, thick parchment, and across the front, written in my grandmother’s unmistakable, spidery handwriting, were three words:
May you like
*“To Maya. For when they come.”*
***
