Chapter 8 - The Shadow King of Rhode Island
The escalation of the Rutherford-Caldwell war was the primary topic of discussion in the financial and political pages of the Wall Street Journal for the next three weeks.
The Caldwell family did not take the humiliation lightly. Within forty-eight hours of the wedding disaster, the senator had launched a full-scale federal investigation into the tax structures of Rutherford Holdings, freezing several high-value municipal development projects in New York and Boston. Elise Caldwell filed for an immediate annulment, her high-powered attorneys demanding a massive settlement for breach of contract and emotional distress.
But inside the glass-walled offices of Vance Brand Strategy in Seattle, the atmosphere was entirely calm.
I sat at my mahogany desk, looking out over the gray expanse of Puget Sound, sipping a cup of green tea while my assistant, Sarah, read through the morning press clippings.
"The Rutherford stock dropped another four percent this morning, Clara," Sarah said, setting the folder down on my desk. "The board is reportedly holding an emergency meeting in Boston tomorrow to discuss whether Meredith Rutherford should be stripped of her honorary chair position."
"Good," I murmured, not looking up from my laptop. "She spent forty years treating that company like her personal country club. It’s time she learned that a balance sheet doesn't care about old bloodlines."
A soft knock sounded at the door.
"Clara," the receptionist’s voice came through the intercom, sounding unusually tense. "There is a gentleman here to see you. He doesn't have an appointment, but he says it’s regarding a private family matter."
My fingers froze over the keyboard. "What is his name?"
"Julian Rutherford."
I closed my eyes for a brief second, taking a slow, deep breath to steady the sudden, violent thrum of my heart. "Send him in."
The heavy oak door opened, and Julian walked into my office.
He looked entirely different from the pristine prince I had seen at the altar in Newport. He had lost weight, his face drawn and pale, his dark hair slightly longer and unstyled. He wore a simple, dark gray woolen coat over a plain white shirt, his hands tucked deep into his pockets. He looked like a man who had spent the last twenty-one days living in hotels and meeting with lawyers.
He stopped a few feet from my desk, his gray-blue eyes scanning my face with a desperate, heavy intensity.
"Clara," he said, his voice barely a breath.
"Julian," I replied, leaning back in my chair and gesturing to the leather sofa opposite me. "Sit down. Seattle is a long way from Rhode Island."
"I resigned from the firm, Clara," he said, not sitting down, his voice steady but thick with emotion. "I walked out of The Waves the night you left. I haven't spoken to my mother since the wedding. I signed over my personal shares to the corporate trust and hired my own legal team to handle the Caldwell annulment."
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I looked at him, searching his face for any sign of the old Rutherford arrogance, but I found nothing but an empty, broken sincerity. "Why are you here, Julian?"
"I don't care about the company, Clara," he said, stepping closer to the desk, his hands coming out of his pockets, trembling slightly. "I don't care about the senator, or the stock price, or my mother's reputation. I’m here because I have three sons who don't know my name. And I’m here to ask you what I need to do to earn the right to look them in the eye."
