Chapter 7 - THE GHOST OF NEWPORTTwo weeks later, the waters off the Newport coast were calm, gray, and completely empty of white luxury yachts.
I stood on the deserted wooden pier where Victoria Richardson had once sneered at my sandals, holding a warm paper cup of espresso. The wind whipped my hair across my face, carrying the sharp, clean scent of salt and autumn rain.
The Lady Victoria—now repainted in standard matte navy blue and rechristened the Sovereign Recovery I—was docked three miles down the coast at the commercial harbor, awaiting auction as a seized asset of the state.
A crunch of gravel behind me announced Uncle Marc’s approach. He walked up slowly, hands deep in his coat pockets, looking out across the choppy Atlantic.
"Got a call from Liam's legal counsel this morning," Marc said casually.
I didn't turn around. "Let me guess. They're trying to appeal the non-compete clause."
"Nope," Marc chuckled softly. "He didn't call lawyers. He actually showed up at Rowan Street Coffee at six o'clock this morning, put on an apron, and asked the manager if the opening shift position was still available."
That surprised me. I turned my head, raising an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Really," Marc nodded. "Manager put him on dishwashing duty. Apparently, he broke three ceramic plates in the first twenty minutes, but he didn't quit. Seems like hitting rock bottom has a way of teaching people how to use their hands."
I took a slow sip of my coffee, feeling the warmth spread through my chest. I didn't feel pity, and I didn't feel triumph. Just a quiet, peaceful closure. The score was settled. The balance sheet of my life had been audited, corrected, and cleared of every toxic asset.
"Good for him," I said quietly.
"So," Marc said, nudging my shoulder with his elbow. "Now that the Hawthorne crisis is wrapped up, what’s next on the desk? We have three billion in distressed retail debt sitting in the Midwest waiting for an aggressive buyer."
May you like
I looked out toward the horizon where the sun was finally breaking through the heavy clouds, casting a brilliant, golden beam across the dark water.
"Let the Midwest wait, Uncle Marc," I smiled, turning back toward the town car. "I have to get back to the shop. The morning rush is starting, and nobody knows how to steam oat milk quite like the President."
