Chapter 8
Arthur showed up that evening.
He arrived in a black Mercedes S-Class, with two assistants flanking him as they helped him into the living room of Sinclair Manor.
He was eighty-two, but still sharp as a tack; his hair was pure white, his back ramrod straight, dressed in a gray Mao suit, radiating that old-school business tycoon energy.
I was waiting for him in the living room.
Once he settled into the seat across from me, he glanced at the urn and the portrait on the altar, letting out a sigh.
"Mrs. Sinclair was an incredible woman. I did business with her for twenty years. I really admired her," he said.
I didn't say anything.
He looked at me for a couple of seconds, then gave a small smile.
"Charlie, I'm not here to argue with you today," he said.
He took an envelope from his assistant and slid it across the coffee table to me.
"This is the Lane family's gesture of sincerity. Three properties in Northbridge, plus 15 million dollars in cash, all yours. Take it as compensation for everything Alex put you through all these years," he said.
I glanced down at the envelope but didn't touch it.
"But—" Arthur's voice slowed, each word deliberate and heavy, as if he was weighing them carefully.
He asked, "Can we put the divorce on hold for now?
"Alex's stubborn, but he's got real talent. If you two could make things work, it'd be good for both families.
"The Sinclair Group needs talent and connections right now, and Alex's medical resources and network—"
"I don't need it," I cut him off.
Arthur stopped mid-sentence and looked at me.
"Mr. Lane, I respect you making the trip out here, but let me be blunt," I said.
I pulled a folder from under the coffee table. "This is a list of everything Alex has taken from the Sinclair Group in the past three years.
"That includes the 30 million dollars his people moved out, the 11 million he funneled out for equipment purchases under the pretense of 'medical cooperation,' and the five personal endorsement deals he scored thanks to our business connections.
"Total: 60 million dollars."
I slid the folder across the table to him.
Arthur didn't even bother to open the folder.
He fixed me with a sharp, shrewd gaze.
"Charlie, you should leave some room for others—" he said.
"He didn't leave any room for my grandmother," I cut him off. "While my grandmother was lying in the ICU, waiting to die, your grandson was busy baking a cake for another woman.
"Mr. Lane, you're a businessman; do the math. Should I really cut him any slack?"
The living room was silent for a long time.
Arthur's fingers tapped on the armrest of the sofa.
"So, you're saying there's no room for negotiation?" Arthur asked.
"There's room. Return the 60 million dollars within a month, and sign the divorce papers in three days," I said.
"Do that, and we walk away clean. If you can't—" I said.
I stared him down.
"Then things are gonna get messy," I said.
Arthur's fingers stopped tapping.
He stared at me for a few seconds, then stood up and straightened the collar of his suit.
"You're even more ruthless than your grandmother," he said.
"She taught me well," I replied.
Arthur turned and walked away.
As he reached the door, he paused, but didn't look back.
"Charlie, don't burn all your bridges at such a young age. The Lane family isn't someone you want to cross," he said.
"Funny you should say that," I called out from behind him. "Funny, I'm not someone you want to cross either."