Chapter 2 - THE COST OF NEGLIGENCE
The drive from the estate to the city was silent,
save for the hum of the electric motor of my car.
Nate sat in the driver’s seat,
his eyes occasionally flickering to the rearview mirror.
“You’ve been holding that in for a long time,”
he said quietly.
I looked out the window at the passing trees,
the green blurring into a smear of color.
“Eight years,
four months,
and twelve days,
Nate.”
“They’re going to fight it,”
he warned.
“Victor still has friends.
He still has the prestige of the Hollister name.”
I opened my laptop,
the glow of the screen illuminating the dark interior of the car.
“He has a name,
but he no longer has the assets.
He leveraged the family estate to keep the company afloat during the 2022 dip.
He didn’t tell Meredith.
He didn't tell the board.
He thought the sale to Everest would cover the debt and leave him with a tidy profit.”
I scrolled through a series of spreadsheets.
“But the debt didn’t disappear with the sale.
Everest didn't just buy the company;
we bought the debt.
Which means I now own his house,
his cars,
and the very watch he was wearing when he told me I had no business gene.”
Nate whistled low.
“That’s ruthless,
Cate.”
“No,”
I corrected.
“That’s business.
That’s exactly what he taught me before he decided I wasn't worthy of the lesson.”
My mind drifted back to the kitchen table eight years ago.
The smell of cheap coffee.
The sound of the radiator clanking in my tiny apartment.
The way my hands shook as I registered the domain for my first consulting firm.
I had used a pseudonym.
I had worked through intermediaries.
I had built a reputation as a 'fixer' for failing firms under the name 'C.H. Everest.'
I wanted to be a ghost until I was a god.
And today,
I had finally manifested.
By the time we reached the Hollister building,
the sun was beginning to set,
painting the glass tower in shades of bruised purple and gold.
There were news vans out front.
Word traveled fast in the world of high finance.
The 'Hollister Betrayal' was already trending on social media.
I stepped out of the car,
the cameras flashing like strobes.
I didn't hide.
I didn't duck.
I walked straight through the revolving doors.
The lobby was chaotic.
The security guards,
men who had known me since I was a child,
stood at attention.
They looked confused,
uncertain of who to salute.
“Good evening,
Arthur,”
I said to the head of security.
He looked at me,
his eyes wide.
“Miss Catherine?
I mean...
ma’am?”
“I believe you received the memo regarding the new ownership,”
I said,
not stopping.
“Yes,
ma’am.
Thirty minutes ago.”
“Good.
If my father or my sister attempt to enter the building,
you are to deny them access.
If they persist,
call the authorities.”
Arthur hesitated.
“Your father,
ma’am?
He’s...
well,
he’s Victor.”
I stopped and looked him in the eye.
“He’s a former employee,
Arthur.
Treat him with the professional courtesy you would extend to anyone who no longer works here.”
I stepped into the private elevator,
the one reserved for the CEO.
The doors closed,
cutting off the noise of the lobby.
As the elevator ascended to the 50th floor,
I felt a strange sensation.
It wasn't joy.
It wasn't even triumph.
It was a cold,
hollow clarity.
I had spent a decade building a mountain just so I could look down on the man who had discarded me.
Now that I was at the top,
the air was thin.
But it was mine.
The elevator chimed.
The doors opened to the executive suite.
And there,
standing in the middle of the hallway,
waiting for me,
was Wittman.
The lawyer.
The man who had helped my father fire me.
He looked older,
sallower,
and very,
very afraid.
“Catherine,”
he started,
his voice cracking.
“We need to discuss the legality of the non-disclosure overrides.”
I walked past him toward the corner office.
“There’s nothing to discuss,
May you like
Wittman.
You’re fired too.”
