18
Adrian
Two weeks after mysurreptitious visit to Nina’s workplace, I was back in New York via Shanghai. I leaned back against the comfort of the leather seats as Patrick drove the familiar route to my parents’ house.
We were on our way there about 7:00 p.m. I leaned deeper against the leather seats fighting exhaustion. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally.
Two days ago, I came to a decision. I grew tired of my moods going from black to blue-black. It’s time to regain my joy. I’ve come to accept there is only one way I can regain my joy.
I didn’t see any of the landmarks we were passing on the way to my parent’s estate. We would pass the Ruggs estate. I would never grace them with my presence again. I know we would pass my mentor’s estate. I smiled. I would be behind those gates very soon, if all went according to plan.
Only two weeks left of the legacy timetable.
The pressure to enter the Ruggs and Rach alliance talks was mounted by my grandfather, my father and my mother. They recruited my sister Christina at Harvard Law School. They knew better than to recruit Jacob. He only had one loyalty.
I ignored all advances from New York. I allowed my broken heart to bleed through my creativity. I spent sleepless nights writing and editing. I now had five books under my secret pen names. The books had gone viral since they were published. I watched them climb the charts. With each publication, my numbers climbed to five figures a month. I was a published author. The only bright spark during this dark period of my life.
My life, my world was about to change.
The trip out to the house seemed longer that night. Perhaps because I was anxious to do what I’d planned. I couldn’t wait to see my parents’ faces when I told them. I prayed my grandfather would not be there by chance. I didn’t want to deal with him. He put a spanner in everything. I always shriveled in his presence. His power and presence overtook any room he occupied.
Patrick deposited me at the entrance, outside the roundabout with the perfect green hedge. I walked the short paved entrance beneath the arch, a perfect semi-circle adorned with creeping white carnations and white roses. Along the path, lavender and green foliage created an attractive walkway to the large imposing white double doors.
Andrew, our butler, opened the door before I reached it. “Good evening, Mr. Adrian. They are in the east room and they asked me to bring you as soon as you got here.” I followed him to the east sitting room—my mother’s white room. It was adorned with gold accessories and fresh yellow and blue flowers in oversize vases, jars, urns of all shapes, heights and sizes.
“Adrian, welcome home, sweetheart,” she said, opening her arms for my embrace. I embraced her as I always do. The dutiful son. My father outstretched his arm and gave me a tired smile. He looked older and I wondered if he was feeling pressured to keep going for appearance”s sake.
This lasted a minute. This was my father, who did everything his father directed him to do. Our biggest beef over the years was what he called my reckless rebellious streak. A personality fault from an ancient family member, he asserted from time to time.
“I have made a decision,” I announced while my father moved to pour drinks.
My mother gave a wide smile, “I am so pleased, Adrian. That you’ve made up your mind. Time . . .”
I cut her off.
“Yes, Mother, I am well aware I only have two weeks left to my deadline. I can’t choose a future with an emotionally unhinged and unstable woman. I can’t choose a future married to a legacy with no efficacy in the present economic environment. I can’t choose a future with a tradition that royals across Europe are abandoning.” I stopped and took a deep breath, more for effect than that there was any doubt over what I would say next.
“I am divorcing the firm and the family. In that order. I give it all up. I give up the hundred million dollars. I give up Watkins and Williams.”
My father threw his glass of wine on my mother’s pristine white walls. I watched as the red wine trickled down the wall in scattered lines.
“I can’t believe I raised a fool,” my mother hissed, her beautiful face twisted into ugly anger.
“No, you didn’t, Mother. You gave me the best boarding school education. I got the best education in how to think for myself. I’ve just exercised my best skill; my analytical skill.” My voice was hard, cold and matter-of-fact.
“I will show myself out. Good night, Mother. Good night, Father.”
“Adrian, you can’t do that,” she said, coming after me. “You cannot be so foolish. Wait till your grandfather hears about this. You can’t divorce the family,” she shouted, going from shrill to broken. I walked faster. I wouldn’t be swayed by tears. I supposed my father stayed silent and seething, watching his wine sully his wife’s perfect white walls. Let them have their perfection.
Blessed Patrick, he was waiting with the car door opened. I jumped in and asked him to race me to part two of my action plan.