Chapter 10 - The Boardroom Rebirth
While Nathan was getting drenched on the downtown platform, I stood on the fortieth floor of the Sterling Crest building.
Harold Sterling himself, the eighty-two-year-old titan of New York corporate law, poured two cups of black coffee from a silver pot in his corner office. Outside, the rain streaked across the panoramic windows overlooking Central Park.
"Claire," Harold said, his gravelly voice filled with solemn respect as he handed me a porcelain cup. "I owe you a profound, personal apology."
"You didn't know, Harold," I said quietly, taking the cup. "Nathan was exceptionally good at hiding the bodies."
"I should have known," the old man growled, sitting behind his sprawling mahogany desk. "When a senior partner brings in extraordinary margins while never allowing our internal compliance auditors near his trust accounts, questions should be asked. I was complacent. And because of my complacency, you and your little girl suffered."
He reached into his leather desk blotter and pulled out a heavy cream-colored document bearing the Sterling Crest gold seal.
"What is this?" I asked.
"Nathan's partnership equity is valued at roughly four point two million dollars," Harold explained. "Under our founding charter, when a partner is terminated for felony embezzlement, fifty percent of that equity is retained by the firm to offset legal liability. But the remaining fifty percent—two point one million dollars—is designated for restitution."
He slid the document toward me.
"Nathan tried to use this firm as a weapon to strip you of everything," Harold continued, his sharp gray eyes locking onto mine. "Instead, our executive board voted unanimously this morning to release that restitution directly to you. It will be wired to your private trust fund before the banks close today."
I looked down at the paper. For twelve years, I had compromised. I had given up my career as an associate art curator to support Nathan's relentless climb up the corporate ladder. I had cooked his dinners, entertained his snobbish clients, ironed his shirts, and swallowed his condescending remarks, believing that we were building a future together.
Now, with a stroke of a pen, the wealth he had hoarded while demeaning me was being handed directly into my hands.
"Thank you, Harold," I said, signing my name across the designated line.
May you like
"Don't thank me, Claire," Harold said, offering a rare, genuine smile. "Go to family court. And make sure that arrogant son of a bitch never hurts another soul again."
***
