Chapter 4 - The Price of Ruin
The liquidation of Mercer Development began at three o'clock that afternoon.
By five, the local financial news was running a banner across the bottom of the screen: Mercer-Whitmore Merger Collapses; Mercer Development Facing Restructuring.
Grant sat in his empty office on the top floor of the Mercer Tower, his desk covered in folders he hadn't opened in months. The building was quiet; most of the staff had been sent home early after the rumor of the bankruptcy spread through the cubicles like a virus.
The door opened, and Julian Vance walked in, carrying two glasses and a bottle of cheap scotch.
"Well," Julian said, setting the bottle down on the mahogany desk. "You certainly know how to make an exit, mate. I haven't seen a crowd disperse that fast since the SEC raided the third floor in '18."
"How bad is it?" Grant asked, not reaching for the glass.
"Richard pulled the funding for the Atlanta hotel," Julian said, sitting in the leather chair across from him. "The banks have issued a margin call on our personal shares. If we don't find twenty million dollars by Friday, the receivers take the building. We're done, Grant. The Mercer name is going to be bought for pennies by a boutique firm from Atlanta."
Grant looked out the window. The city lights were beginning to flicker through the twilight, their reflections dancing on the wet asphalt below. "I don't care."
Julian stared at him. "You don't care? We spent ten years building this, Grant. We slept on the floor of the warehouse during the first development project. We ate ramen for three months so we could pay the draftsmen. Now you're going to let Richard Whitmore take it because of a girl you haven't seen in seven years?"
"She has my daughters, Julian," Grant said softly. "Two of them. Emma and Sophie."
Julian’s anger seemed to evaporate, replaced by a sudden, heavy fatigue. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. "Twins. Jesus, Grant. You really are a fool."
"I know," Grant said.
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to see them," Grant said, standing up and reaching for his coat. "The company can burn, Julian. I'm going to be a father."
He drove through the dark, wet streets of the city, his phone buzzing in his pocket with calls from reporters, board members, and his mother. He ignored them all. He had an address—a small, historic bungalow in the Dilworth neighborhood that he had found through a public records search.
When he pulled up to the curb, the house was glowing with a warm, amber light.
A yellow bicycle with training wheels sat on the front porch, next to a matching pair of purple rain boots. The storm had passed, leaving the night air cool, clean, and quiet.
Grant walked up the wooden steps, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He stood before the red door for a long time before he found the courage to knock.
The door was opened by Hannah. She had changed into a soft green sweater and jeans, her hair down, her face relaxed. She looked at him, then at the vintage sports car parked at the curb.
"The news says you're ruined, Grant," she said quietly.
"The news is right," he said. "The banks are taking the tower. The partners are suing me. I'm officially a liability."
Hannah leaned against the doorframe, her eyes searching his face for any sign of regret. "And how does it feel?"
"Like I can finally breathe," he said.
A small voice called out from the hallway behind her. "Mommy? Is that the man from the bus?"
Grant looked past Hannah's shoulder.
Sophie stood near the stairs, clutching a stuffed yellow rabbit by its ear. She was wearing flannel pajamas with little clouds on them, her dark brown curls tumbling over her shoulders.
Hannah looked at Grant, then back at her daughter. "Yes, sweetie. This is Grant."
"Is he going to stay for dinner?" Sophie asked, her green-gray eyes wide with curiosity. "We have macaroni."
Grant looked at Hannah, his eyes begging for a chance he knew he didn't deserve.
May you like
Hannah stood silent for a long moment, the wind rustling the wet leaves of the oak trees in the yard. Then, she stepped aside, leaving the door wide open.
"We have plenty of macaroni, Grant," she said. "But you're doing the dishes."
