Chapter 8 - THE WOMAN ROMAN PUT IN THE CEO’S CHAIR
Claire became chief executive officer of Higgins Harbor Freight at 8:03 on Monday morning.
Nobody applauded at first.
Mostly because everyone was too shocked.
Patrick Higgins had formally resigned from all positions.
Walter had been suspended and later removed.
Roman Calder remained majority secured creditor.
Claire stood at the head of the old conference table where her father had sat for twenty-eight years.
She looked at the chair.
Then at the employees gathered around.
“I’m not sitting there.”
Eddie, the senior driver, frowned.
“Why?”
“Because everyone will stare.”
“We’re already staring.”
Fair.
She sat.
Applause started.
Claire almost cried.
She didn’t.
There was too much work.
The numbers were worse than expected.
Fourteen point eight million in legitimate debt.
Another five million in liabilities tied to Patrick’s gambling.
Three million in pension exposure.
Insurance claims from the Warehouse C attack.
Lost contracts.
Damaged reputation.
Roman attended the first restructuring meeting.
Claire looked at him.
“Why are you here?”
“I own debt.”
“You said operations are mine.”
“They are.”
“Then sit quietly.”
His eyebrows rose.
The lawyers around the table became fascinated by their notes.
Roman sat.
Quietly.
Claire almost enjoyed it too much.
She cut executive expenses.
Sold two unused properties.
Renegotiated fuel contracts.
Froze management bonuses.
Restored pension collateral using proceeds from Patrick’s surrendered personal assets.
Patrick volunteered his brownstone.
Vacation property.
Investments.
Everything.
Claire accepted.
Not as punishment.
Restitution.
Patrick entered addiction treatment voluntarily.
He did not return to the office.
That mattered.
Walter faced federal fraud and conspiracy charges.
He cooperated against Victor.
Amy visited him once.
Afterward, she came to Claire’s apartment and cried for two hours.
“I still love him.”
Claire held her.
“You can.”
“I hate what he did.”
“You can do that too.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“It isn’t.”
Nothing was.
Roman’s presence became another complication.
He called every morning at seven-thirty.
Claire answered every third call.
By week two, he stopped calling and started emailing.
Better.
By week three, he appeared at Pier Nine carrying coffee.
She stared.
“What?”
“I was nearby.”
“You own a building in Tribeca.”
“Yes.”
“This is Brooklyn.”
“Geography is flexible.”
She took the coffee.
Dangerous.
She knew his order now too.
Black.
No sugar.
That felt more dangerous.
Their chemistry had existed from the slap.
Neither admitted it.
Then the tabloids did it for them.
CALDER’S NEWEST ACQUISITION?
A photograph showed Roman leaving Pier Nine behind Claire.
Another headline:
KING OF THE HARBOR FALLS FOR FREIGHT HEIRESS WHO SLAPPED HIM.
Claire threw the newspaper onto her desk.
Roman picked it up.
“They chose a good photograph.”
“I hate you.”
“No.”
He looked at her.
“You don’t.”
Her stomach tightened.
“Arrogant.”
“Yes.”
“Get out.”
He did.
Also dangerous.
Victor’s lawyers leaked claims that Roman had engineered Higgins Freight’s collapse to force Claire into dependence.
Absurd.
But effective.
A cable business program repeated it.
Then another.
Employees worried clients would leave.
Claire made a decision.
Press conference.
Roman said no.
She smiled.
“Good thing you don’t decide.”
He stared.
Then:
“Security?”
“Fine.”
At Pier Nine, Claire stood before reporters.
No Roman beside her.
No father.
No lawyers.
Just Claire.
“My name is Claire Higgins. I am CEO of Higgins Harbor Freight.”
Questions exploded.
She raised a hand.
“Three facts.”
Silence.
“First, Roman Calder did not create the debts that destabilized this company.”
Cameras flashed.
“Second, my father concealed gambling losses and unauthorized borrowing. Patrick Higgins has resigned and is cooperating with investigators.”
More questions.
“Third, Calder Maritime acquired secured debt before Victor Bellamy could seize our port assets.”
Someone shouted:
“Did Roman Calder save your company?”
Claire frowned.
“No.”
The reporter blinked.
Claire continued:
“He prevented one specific takeover.”
She looked toward the warehouse.
“My employees are saving this company.”
Applause erupted from workers behind the press barricade.
Roman watched from inside an office window.
She saw him.
“Are you romantically involved with Mr. Calder?”
Of course.
Claire answered:
“No.”
Roman’s face remained unreadable.
Another reporter:
“Would you like to be?”
Claire stared.
“I would like you to ask about the one hundred eighty-three people whose pensions nearly disappeared.”
Good.
Afterward, Roman found her in the loading office.
“You handled that well.”
“I know.”
“You said no.”
“To what?”
“Romantically involved.”
“We’re not.”
“No.”
Silence.
Claire looked at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You have a face.”
“So do you.”
“That is not what I mean.”
Roman stepped closer.
Not too close.
He had learned.
“I have avoided asking you something.”
Her pulse shifted.
“Why?”
“Because I own your company’s debt.”
That was more self-awareness than she expected.
“And?”
“If I ask while your livelihood depends partly on decisions I control, your answer is not clean.”
Claire stared.
“Roman Calder is concerned about power imbalance.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I am extremely surprised.”
His mouth twitched.
She looked at him.
“What would you ask?”
He held her gaze.
“Dinner.”
Her heart beat harder.
“That’s it?”
“For now.”
“And you won’t ask.”
“Not yet.”
Claire did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed.
Definitely both.
Then his phone rang.
His expression changed.
“What?”
Roman answered.
Listened.
Then looked at her.
“Victor’s attorneys released another document.”
“What?”
He turned the screen.
A personal guarantee.
Claire Higgins.
$4 million.
Her signature.
Claire stared.
“I never signed that.”
Roman’s face hardened.
“It looks real.”
“It isn’t.”
“If the lender enforces it—”
“They can’t.”
“If they prove authenticity, they can.”
Claire snatched the phone.
Date.
Eight months earlier.
She had been in Boston that day at a shipping conference.
She remembered signing documents remotely.
Walter had sent them.
Fuel contract.
Insurance renewal.
Vendor approvals.
Could he have slipped in a guarantee?
Her stomach dropped.
Roman saw.
“What?”
“I signed a packet that day.”
His face changed.
Claire whispered:
“I may have signed my own financial death sentence without knowing it.”
Roman looked at her.
“No.”
She laughed bitterly.
“You don’t know that.”
“No.”
His voice hardened.
“I mean they are not taking everything from you because you trusted your uncle.”
Claire stared.
“You cannot fix this with money.”
“I know.”
That mattered.
Roman continued:
“So we prove what happened.”
Not pay.
Prove.
Claire slowly nodded.
Then he said:
“And once I no longer own anything that controls your choices…”
She looked up.
“I’m asking about dinner.”
For the first time in weeks, Claire smiled.
“Maybe.”
Roman’s eyes narrowed.
“Maybe?”
May you like
“You’ll survive.”
Barely.
