Chapter 8 - The Ashes of the Old Life
The following afternoon, I sat behind the large mahogany desk in the corner office of Rowan Events International.
It was the office that had belonged to my mother, then to my father. For twelve years, I had entered this room only when summoned to receive a new pile of work or to be reprimanded for spending too much on employee health insurance.
Now, the brass nameplate on the door read: *Claire Rowan-Vale, Chief Executive Officer.*
Outside the frosted glass walls, the eighty-three employees of Rowan House were buzzing with energy. Two hours ago, I had held an all-hands meeting in the main atrium. I announced that no pensions would be cut, all back-pay bonuses would be paid out on Friday, and the company was entering a multi-million-dollar exclusive partnership with Vale Luxury Resorts.
The applause had brought tears to my eyes.
A sharp knock at the door broke my concentration. Marcus stepped inside, his expression impassive.
“Your father is outside, Mrs. Vale. He is asking for five minutes.”
I took a slow, deep breath, setting my pen down on the leather blotter. “Let him in, Marcus. Stay outside the door.”
Robert Rowan walked into the office looking twenty years older. His suit was wrinkled, his hair disheveled, and the hollow despair in his eyes was complete. He looked around the room—his former domain—before sinking into the guest chair across from me.
“Claire,” he said, his voice trembling.
“Robert,” I replied evenly. Not *Dad*.
He flinched at the word. “Claire... please. You have to stop this. Victoria has locked herself in the master bedroom with a bottle of vodka. Madeline has been hysterical since last night. They’re canceling her influencer sponsorships. People are calling her a fraud in the papers.”
“She *is* a fraud,” I said without a trace of remorse. “And you enabled her.”
“I was trying to keep our family together!” he pleaded, leaning across the desk, tears leaking down his sunken cheeks. “After your mother died, the debts... the expectations... Victoria wanted so much, and Madeline had such dreams. I was weak, Claire! I admit it! But you are my blood. Your mother would never have wanted you to cast your father out into the cold!”
The mention of my mother made a cold, sharp fury ignite behind my ribs.
I stood up, resting my palms flat on the desk, towering over him.
“Do not ever speak my mother’s name in this room,” I said, my voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “My mother built this business with bleeding knuckles and eighteen-hour days while you were playing golf. She left this company to provide for us, and you handed it over to a woman who treated her memory like trash and a stepdaughter who spent company funds on European holidays while our warehouse workers went without heat in January.”
Robert slumped back, sobbing into his hands.
“You traded me away,” I continued, each word hammering like a nail into a coffin. “You sat at that rehearsal dinner and looked me in the eyes, telling me the company would die if I didn't marry Adrian. You were willing to sacrifice me to an alleged monster just so you wouldn't have to face the music for your own theft.”
“I’m sorry... Claire, I’m so sorry...”
“You’re sorry you were caught,” I said coldly.
I opened the top desk drawer, pulling out a single document, and slid it across the desk toward him.
“What is this?” he whispered, wiping his eyes.
“It is a severance agreement,” I said. “I will not press criminal charges for the two point four million dollars you and Victoria embezzled. You will retain your personal pension, and the deed to the lake cottage up north will be transferred to your name alone.”
He looked up, a glimmer of desperate hope in his eyes. “Claire... thank you—”
“In exchange,” I interrupted ruthlessly, “you will sign over every remaining interest, you will vacate the family townhome by Sunday night so it can be sold to replenish the company reserves, and you will never set foot in this building again. Victoria and Madeline will receive nothing. They can find jobs.”
Robert stared at the paper, his hands trembling as he picked up the pen. With a broken sob, he signed his name on the dotted line.
He stood up slowly, looking at me with profound shame. “You’re just like your mother. She was steel, too.”
“No,” I said, watching him walk toward the door. “My mother had mercy for people who didn't deserve it. I don't.”
As the door clicked shut behind him, the immense weight that had crushed my chest for twelve years evaporated into the quiet air.
I was free.
The private line on my desk chimed softly. I pressed the speakerphone button.
“Claire,” Adrian’s deep, velvety voice filled the office.
My heart did a familiar, erratic flip. “Adrian.”
“Is it done?” he asked.
“It’s done,” I said, letting out a long, cathartic breath. “The company is secure. The rot has been cut out.”
“Good,” Adrian said softly. “Then come home, Claire. Your husband is waiting for you.”
A warm, delicious shiver raced through my body.
May you like
“I’m on my way,” I whispered.
***
