27. Rhett
CHAPTER 27
Rhett
S ince Pearl was going to work, I decided to do the same. There were things that I couldn’t do remotely and had been putting them off. In all honesty, as dedicated as I used to be to my job and company, after seeing Pearl fall apart, it all seemed far less important.
My office was in a building along Abercorn Street, on the edge of Savannah’s financial district. The tall floor-to-ceiling windows reflected Savannah's historic charm while carving out its place in the present, thanks to the interior designer we hired to make the office look and feel ultra-modern.
Since I was the boss , I had a corner office with a view of Forsyth Park, just a few blocks away.
I had a ton of work to get through, and my calendar was packed with meetings, but I felt restive, so I watched the trees in the park, some of which had been there since the dawn of time, sway in the humid breeze .
The knock on my office door irritated me. Being back at work and available to everyone was usually second nature to me— de rigueur —but today, it grated on my nerves. I’d never pegged myself as the type who would enjoy time off, but I had. In fact, I loved it. I found myself thinking things like, “ There’s more to life than work .”
Since when? Since I met Pearl again , I thought with quiet satisfaction.
“Yeah, come in,” I instructed as I walked behind my desk and took a seat.
My executive assistant, Cynthia Baker, stepped in. She was in her early forties and had been with Vanderbilt Finance since I started it eight years ago. I was a child then, and Cynthia had played a major role in raising my business and me in my professional capacity.
“Your father has requested half an hour of your time…well, he did that a few weeks ago, but I told his assistant that you were on leave.”
I chuckled. “That explains the voicemails he left me.”
“He thought I was lyin’ since you never take time off.” Cynthia sat across from me. She was African American and had worked for top executives in the financial world. I’d been fortunate when she decided to work for my company, and all but took me under her wing to make a CEO out of me.
“I had important things to take care of,” I said, almost defensively.
She grinned, pushing up her glasses. “Rhett, it warms my heart that you trusted your very competent team to take care of things, and as you’ll see at the status meeting later today, they have done precisely that.”
“Thanks, Cynthia.”
“How’s Pearl?” she asked.
“Good. She’s gone to work today. I dropped her off before I came here.” I was keeping an eye on my phone. I’d told her to text or call me if she felt uneasy at all and wanted to go home.
“I can squeeze your father in before your lunch meeting with the marketing team.” She flipped through her tablet.
“Sounds good.”
She looked at me. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
“Cynthia, you could probably tell me what’s goin’ on better than I can,” I murmured.
She made a face. “Well, I know what happened at the Savannah Soirée for Hope. Good work.”
I grimaced. “Pearl’s niece recorded it, and next thing I know…. I’m assuming you want to know why my father is coming here rather than me going to him?”
“Yes,” she confirmed.
I shrugged. “I felt it was time he understood what my taking care of the family estate means.”
“Ah, he bossed you around one time too much?”
“Something like that,” I agreed. “He threatened me when I ended my engagement with Josie.”
Cynthia didn’t comment on Josie. She didn’t like her and had told me that, and then said she wouldn’t be discussing her with me as my life was mine and her feelings about my fiancée were none of my business. Cynthia had a way of ending arguments before they even started.
“I told him he can take his money and do what he wants with it.”
“Your father isn’t going to do that,” Cynthia scoffed. “He lost enough Vanderbilt money when he was managing the estate, and what he has—he knows—is because of your astute investment decisions.”
“And yet, he had no problem, as you so aptly put it, bossing me around.”
“Oh, Rhett, that’s because you let him.”
She had a point.
“He’s not going to be doing that anymore,” I vowed, primarily to myself.
“Good,” Cynthia declared and then went through my calendar and made sure I was up to date with regard to everything I needed to know.
After she left, I pondered what Cynthia said about how I’d allowed my father to bully me.
Why had I done that?
I leaned back in my chair, letting my eyes wander over the space I’d built. The walls were lined with custom bookshelves, not stuffed with meaningless leather-bound props, but actual books I’d read—on finance, entrepreneurship, and the psychology of leadership. A sleek desk sat in the center of the room, organized but lived-in, with my laptop open and a cup of coffee cooling beside it.
This office reflected me. Not my family. Not their legacy. Me .
I started Vanderbilt Finance with nothing more than my name, my degree, and a hell of a lot of ambition. People (especially my father) assumed I’d be a failure, calling it a hobby and a vanity project.
I’d turned it into a success. And while I was proud of the company’s growth, I was even prouder that I’d done it without asking George Vanderbilt for a single Goddamn cent. When he saw how well I was managing my trust fund and building something out of it, he eventually asked me to take over his assets and everything Vanderbilt that was still under his control. And I had.
For a brief moment, it felt like validation—like my father finally trusted me and saw me as his heir, not just a rebellious kid trying to prove a point. It had been a proud moment for me, even if I didn’t let him know how much it meant at the time.
Instead of seeing what I had achieved without him, I had been focused on what I had accomplished to gain his respect. However, I could no longer remember why George Vanderbilt’s opinion of me mattered so much when our values were so contrary to one another.
My phone buzzed, and it was Cynthia telling me my father had arrived—ten minutes early.
Before I could get up to receive him, my door swung open.
George Vanderbilt didn’t walk into rooms so much as he entered them. His tailored gray suit was flawless, his silver hair slicked back in a perfect wave, and his demeanor carefully crafted—a seamless mix of mild disdain and quiet superiority. He was every inch the arrogant Southern patriarch.
I walked to him, and we shook hands.
“I’ve been trying to make an appointment to see you…which, in itself, is preposterous.” He threw down the gauntlet right at the start, telling me what kind of conversation we were going to have.
“I took a leave of absence.”
I waved a hand at a client’s chair and took my seat. A part of me wanted to sit up straight, but that was the boy still trying to impress his impossible-to-please father. The man I had become lounged in my leather desk chair, at ease with myself and my surroundings. I wasn’t going to behave differently just because he was here.
“Leave of absence? What nonsense.” He remained standing by the door.
“How can I help you, sir?”
His lips thinned as he strode toward the chair across from my desk and lowered himself into it. “You’ve been making waves,” he reprimanded. “That little speech of yours at the Soirée for Hope has the whole town talking.”
“Good,” I replied simply.
His eyes narrowed slightly, but he pressed on. “And now I hear you’re involved with that Beaumont girl.”
“I assumed you’re here to talk to me about your account because that’s all I intend to discuss with you. My personal life is none of your business.”
His nostrils flared with anger. He hadn’t expected me to push back—well, he’d call it being belligerent. But after our last conversation, he should have seen this coming. Then again, knowing my father, he probably convinced himself it was a one-time lapse and went right back to treating me the way he always had, assuming I’d do the same.
“I think we should keep the business side of our relationship as is,” he snarled.
I pursed my lips and then sighed. “I’m happy to continue to do that as long as you don’t feel you have the right to come into my office and berate me for whatever societal crimes you think I’ve committed.”
“ Rhett ,” he stressed condescendingly, like I was a child on the verge of a meltdown. “I’m not here to fight you on this. The Beaumonts are a fine family. Good name, old money. In fact, I’d say they’re just as respectable as the Vances, except they don’t have as much money. If you’re serious about this girl, I can’t see how?—”
“Stop,” I cut him off. My voice wasn’t loud, but it was hard enough to shut him the hell up. “Don’t talk about Pearl like she’s an asset or a name on a ledger. My girlfriend isn’t a society box to check off. She’s not part of some strategy or legacy. She’s a person—a woman I care about—and I won’t let you reduce her to something less.”
His face darkened, the lines around his mouth tightening. “You’ve always been so quick to throw away what’s been handed to you. The Vanderbilt name, our reputation—it’s what built this city. It’s what built you.”
I laughed bitterly, shaking my head. “No, Dad. I built me and this .” I gestured to the office around me. “This company? This isn’t the Vanderbilt name. This is me. My work, my ideas, my effort. I didn’t use your connections, your money, or your influence. And let’s be honest—you didn’t offer any of it, anyway. You told me this was a hobby , remember? It was to keep me busy until I settled down into the life you wanted for me.”
George’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue.
“And now,” I continued, letting years of repressed anger lead me, “you want to give me your blessing to be with Pearl? Let me be clear—I don’t care what you think about her or me. Pearl and I don’t need your approval, and we sure as hell don’t need your judgment.”
He let out a slow breath, his gaze shifting to a cold, calculated calm—the place every sociopath retreated to when threats failed. “Rhett, you’re part of a heritage, an important one in the state of Georgia. If you think you can just walk away from that?—”
“I already have,” I interrupted him again . I think I’d done that more during this conversation than in my whole life, which was telling. “I’ve been walking away from it for years. Speaking of which, and for the sake of transparency, I wanted you to know that I’m selling the house…the whole estate.”
The words hung in the air like a grenade waiting to go off.
His eyes widened, and for a moment, he looked genuinely shocked. “You’re what ?”
“I’m selling it,” I repeated, my voice steady. “I hate living there. I’ve hated it for years. It’s not a home—it’s a mausoleum. I’m not going to keep holding onto it just because you think it’s some kind of symbol. It’s not my legacy, it’s yours. And you can keep it.”
“You can’t sell it.”
“It’s mine, so I can. If you want to keep it in the family or whatever, feel free to make me an offer.” He couldn’t afford it, he knew that, and so did I, since I was intimate with his portfolio.
He stared at me, his face a mask of fury barely held in check. “You don’t understand what you’re throwing away. That house has been in our family for?—”
“Many, many generations,” I supplied. “Legacy doesn’t mean a thing if it makes you miserable. You’ve spent your whole life trying to control everyone around you, pretending it’s about preserving the family name. It makes you happy, so you can keep doing it. I’m not going to live my life that way, and I’m sure as hell not going to let you drag Pearl into it.”
The silence that followed was heavy, the weight of unspoken truths pressing down on both of us.
“This doesn’t end here.” I think he wanted that to be the final blow, but it didn’t land. The thing was, nothing was landing any longer, and he could see it, feel that he’d lost me.
“Yes, it does.” I stood and looked him dead in the eye.
He rose as well, straightening his jacket with a sharp tug. “I always knew you were going to disappoint me, and you finally have.”
“Frankly, sir, I don’t give a damn.”