Chapter 8 - The Reclamation
Six months after the opening of the Crestview Medical Complex, Asterline Engineering Group had officially cemented its status as the regional titan of structural systems.
The subsidiary formerly known as Mercer Architectural Systems had been fully integrated and rebranded as Asterline Structural Construction (ASC). Under Marcus Vance’s rigorous oversight and my engineering standards, the division recorded its first profitable quarter in over seven years. The toxic culture of unpaid overtime, rushed calculations, and executive favor-currying was entirely gone, replaced by a streamlined, highly compensated workforce that took immense pride in their builds.
On a warm Thursday morning, I stood in the main drafting room of the newly renovated ASC building—the very building my father had once ruled with an iron fist.
The dark, claustrophobic mahogany panels in the executive lobby had been ripped out and replaced with bright white concrete, glass partitions, and open-plan engineering bays.
I was reviewing the structural schematics for a new $60 million green-energy research park when my assistant, Sarah, walked up.
"Rowan," Sarah said softly. "You have a visitor down in the secondary conference room. He doesn't have an appointment, but... he said you'd want to see him."
I looked up from the blueprints. "Who is it?"
"Your brother. Derek."
I paused, setting my digital stylus down. I hadn't spoken directly to Derek since the day he walked out of my office alongside my mother, six months ago. From what Camille had told me, Derek had finally been forced to face the reality of his own adult life after Dad’s financial support completely dried up.
"Give me five minutes," I said.
I walked into Conference Room B.
Derek was sitting at the glass table. He was dressed in a simple button-down shirt and dark trousers—no designer watch, no expensive bourbon in hand. He looked leaner, sharper, and noticeably stripped of the easy, entitled posture he had carried for twenty-six years.
Beside his chair rested a heavy cardboard portfolio folder.
When I entered, he immediately stood up. "Rowan. Thanks for seeing me."
"Sit down, Derek," I said, taking a seat across from him. "What's on your mind?"
Derek took a breath, rubbing his hands together nervously before opening the portfolio folder.
"I know I'm probably the last person on earth you want to hear from regarding business," Derek began, his voice quiet but steady. "And I know I acted like an absolute coward at Camille’s wedding. I’m not going to sit here and make excuses for why I stood there and watched Mom and Dad push you around. I was lazy, I was dependent on Dad's money, and it was easier for me to pretend everything was fine than to speak up."
I listened quietly, keeping my face neutral.
"When Dad lost the company," Derek continued, "I realized I had literally zero actual skills. I spent four years in college playing video games and drinking, expecting to just inherit a VP title at Mercer Architectural. When everything blew up, I couldn't even land an entry-level interview at a basic marketing firm."
He slid a thick bound document across the table toward me.
"So I spent the last five months going back to school," Derek said. "Night classes at the community college for Construction Safety and Project Logistics. I took a job as a third-shift site clerk for a residential contractor down in South District."
I picked up the document. It was a fully detailed, forty-page operational safety proposal for high-rise crane operations in urban zones—meticulously formatted, thoroughly researched, and annotated with modern OSHA regulatory standards.
I glanced up at my brother in surprise. "Did you write this?"
"Every word," Derek said, looking me straight in the eyes without flinching. "I didn't use Dad's name. I didn't ask Camille for help. I stayed up until two in the morning every night after my site shifts to write it."
He took a deep breath.
"I’m not asking for a management job, Rowan. I’m not asking for a favor. I’m applying for the Junior Safety Auditor position you posted on the ASC careers board last week. I submitted my application under my mid-name, Derek Vance-Mercer, so the HR team wouldn't auto-flag it. I made it through the first two round interviews on my own merit."
I stared at my younger brother.
For twenty-six years, Derek had been the golden boy—spoiled, protected, and completely soft. But sitting across from me now was a young man who had finally tasted the harsh, sobering reality of failure, and instead of whining about it, he had rolled up his sleeves and worked.
"You know if you work for ASC," I said slowly, "you won't get any special treatment. You will report directly to Harold Finch and our chief safety officer. If you slip up, if you try to use family privilege, or if your work drops below standard, Harold will fire you without asking me first."
"I don't want special treatment, Rowan," Derek said, his voice ringing with absolute conviction. "I want to earn my keep. I want to build something real... like you did."
I looked down at the safety proposal in my hands, then back at Derek.
I saw no trace of the smug kid holding a bourbon glass in the foyer of the Grand Oak Estate.
I picked up my pen, wrote a small note on the corner of his folder, and slid it back to him.
APPROVED FOR FINAL TECHNICAL INTERVIEW — R.M.
"Take this down to Harold on the third floor," I said, a tiny, subtle smile breaking through my professional demeanor. "And Derek?"
He paused, looking up, his eyes bright with hope.
"Don't make me look bad in front of my safety chief."
Derek let out a long, shaky breath, a brilliant, genuine grin spreading across his face. "I won't, Rowan. I swear to God I won't."
May you like
He grabbed the folder, stood up, and held out his hand across the table.
I stood up and shook it—not as an older sister managing a delinquent brother, but as one professional recognizing the hard-earned effort of another.
