Ever prepared, she’s already waiting. Sarah is young, smart, and too good to be working for my sinking ship of a company, but loyal to us. She holds a tablet against her chest like a shield.
"The Port Authority is stalling," she says, following me to my desk. "They haven't cleared the ship for departure. They’re claiming there’s a problem with the insurance."
I slam my bag onto the desk. "There’s no problem. I paid it myself yesterday. I used my personal savings."
Sarah winces, knowing my savings were the last money I had.
"I know," she says. "But they’re saying the system hasn't updated."
"A wire transfer takes two hours!" I snap, staring at the screen. "It’s been three days. What is happening? Where are all these problems coming from, especially now?"
She swallows hard. "Well, they aren't answering the phone. And... Mr. Rossi called."
I freeze.
Rossi is the man we owe the most money to.
"What did he want?"
"He wants a meeting today. He says if he doesn't see a payment plan by noon, he’s taking the warehouses."
I sink into my chair and look out the huge window. Below, our ship sits at the dock. It’s peaceful from up here rather than the ticking time bomb it really is. My entire existence is tied to that hull.
"Get Rossi on the phone," I say. "Tell him I’m in a meeting with the Venezuelan attaché. Lie to him. Tell him the money issafe in the bank and will be released when the ship leaves. Buy me twenty-four hours."
"And the Port Authority?"
"I’ll go down there myself if I have to. Send the receipt of the transfer to the harbor master now."
She nods and runs out.
I spend the next six hours putting out fires. I sign papers, yell at union representatives, and lie to nervous investors.
It’s just business,my father used to say.It’s a game. You have to hold your cards right.
But my father stopped playing the game years ago. Now, the game is playing him.
By 5:00 PM, the adrenaline is wearing off, leaving behind a headache that throbs with every heartbeat. I’m staring at a spreadsheet, trying to find a way to squeeze ten thousand dollars, when the door to my office slams open.
I jump, my heart leaping into my throat.
My father is standing there in the doorway.
I blink, sure I’m hallucinating. I left him locked in his room this morning, seemingly passed out cold.
Arthur Blackwood used to be handsome—the kind of man with charisma and a smile that could charm a room. But the man standing there now is a ghost. His suit is wrinkled, his tie is loose, and his face glistens with sweat.
And his eyes... His eyes are terrifying. They’re wide and wild, darting around the room like he expects someone to jump out at him.
He’s vibrating with manic energy.
He hasn't set foot in the office in months, but he’s still the owner. His name is on the deed, and his fingerprint still opens every lock in the building.
It’s a cruel joke. I’m the manager. I’m the one fighting the banks to hold this company together. He only comes here to bleed us dry.
"Dad?" I stand up slowly, putting the desk between us. "Dad, what’s wrong? Are you okay?"
He doesn't answer. He storms into the office, kicking the door shut behind him. He runs to the window and peers through the blinds before spinning to face me.
