Chapter 9 - THE ULTIMATUM
The sun rose over the Hudson River on Saturday morning in a blinding explosion of gold and amber light that burned away the last remnants of the autumn mist.
Clara woke up in a massive, king-sized bed wrapped in crisp white linen sheets that smelled of cedarwood and bergamot.
She sat up instantly, her hand flying to her face, realizing her glasses were sitting on the minimalist nightstand beside a steaming mug of black coffee with exactly two square ice cubes floating in it.
"He's impossible," she muttered to the empty room.
Ten minutes later, dressed in her sensible black skirt and white blouse—which had been pressed and hung neatly over the back of an armchair while she slept—she walked down the floating oak staircase into the kitchen.
Declan was standing by the center island, wearing a black crewneck sweater and dark jeans, reviewing a stack of digital printouts on a tablet.
"Good morning, Clara," he said without looking up. "Did you sleep well?"
"I slept like a woman who is currently calculating how many years of hazard pay it will take to pay off her mortgage," she said, walking over to the island and picking up her coffee mug. She took a sip. The temperature was precisely right. "Where are the federal agents?"
"Judge Harrison’s office issued a statement at six a.m. dropping the warrant against our Bayonne facility," Declan said, sliding the tablet across the marble counter toward her. "It turns out that when Higgins signed his resignation and confession form last night, he also included a sworn affidavit stating that the documents he handed to the DOJ were falsified by a disgruntled junior prosecutor looking for a headline."
Clara glanced at the screen, her lips twitching into a very small, very satisfied smile. "You are a ruthless monopolist, Mr. Shaw."
"I protect my assets," Declan corrected, looking up from the counter. His dark eyes locked onto hers with a sudden, intense seriousness. "Which brings us to a more pressing administrative matter."
Clara set her coffee mug down. "If this is about my salary increase, I want twenty percent more than you offered yesterday, plus dental coverage that includes orthodontics."
Declan walked around the island, stopped right in front of her, and reached into his pocket. He didn't pull out a key or a confession form. He pulled out a small, heavy velvet box and set it on the marble counter between them.
Clara stared at it. Her breath caught in her throat for the first time in three years.
"What is this?" she asked, her voice dropping into a rare, uncharacteristic whisper.
"It’s not a corporate bonus," Declan said quietly. "And it’s not an administrative perk."
He flipped open the lid. Inside, resting against black velvet, was an old, heavy platinum ring set with a single, flawless emerald-cut diamond that looked like it had history written into every facet.
"My grandmother’s," Declan said, his voice low and steady. "She ran the docks in Brooklyn during the depression while my grandfather was in Sing Sing. She told him on the day he got out that she was running the books from then on, and he spent the next fifty years thanking God she did."
Clara stared at the ring. Then she looked up into Declan’s dark, unwavering eyes.
"Mr. Shaw," she said, her voice trembling just a fraction. "Are you proposing a hostile takeover of my personal life?"
"I’m offering a permanent partnership," Declan said, his hand covering hers on the cold marble counter. "No more hiding behind your desk on the thirty-second floor. No more pretending you're invisible. You run the books, Clara... and you run me."
May you like
Clara looked down at the ring, then back up at the man who owned half the city and half her heart.
"Well," she said, a slow, brilliant smile breaking across her face for the first time in three years. "The salary and dental package better be exceptional."
