Chapter 2 - Cold Meat and Old Radios
Twenty minutes later, they stood outside on the service dock, far from the champagne flutes and classical strings. The night air was sharp, carrying the bitter scent of river damp. Julian had ignored his entourage, slipping out the back exit with only his driver waiting at a distance. Clara clutched the small wooden box against her ribs, knuckles white.
"He lives in an unheated room above an auto repair shop in Newark," Clara said, staring at the pavement. "He fixes mechanical watches and listens to baseball games on an AM transistor. For fifteen years, he told me our name was just Holloway—a common name, an ordinary life." She looked up, defiance masking her embarrassment. "We couldn’t make rent this month. The event planner caught me admiring the box in my locker, threw it in the trash, and threatened to call dispatch for bringing personal junk on the floor."
Julian looked down at his handmade leather oxfords, then at the cheap scuffed boots Clara wore. A bitter smirk touched his lips. "They threw thirty billion dollars into a garbage bag," he whispered. "Your grandfather built the empire my father stole from him. The public called it a hostile takeover. My father called it good business. But my father went to his grave begging for forgiveness from a ghost."
