Rise Of The Ice Lord

2

Chapter Two: The Severance Receipt

Genevieve shoved Rowan into the leather seat of the town car before the neighbors could step out of their homes. She needed the legal severance finalized before the local socialites caught wind of the morning argument. The driver locked the doors and steered the vehicle toward the commercial district.

The ride passed in heavy silence. Harlan Sterling met them in the marble lobby of Sullivan and Finch. The patriarch wore a tailored suit and cast a look of sheer disgust at Rowan. Harlan did not offer a greeting. He simply turned and walked onto the private elevator.

They sat around a polished mahogany table in the senior partner office. Arthur Sullivan slid a thick stack of legal documents across the glass surface. The paperwork detailed a voluntary release of all foster claims, trust distributions, and legal rights to the Sterling surname.

Arthur folded his hands over the desk. He looked at Rowan with mild confusion.

"For the official record, I have to ask," Arthur said. "You are voluntarily waiving your right to a multimillion dollar trust stipend. Can you state your reason for this sudden decision?"

Genevieve cleared her throat. She prepared to offer a fabricated excuse about Rowan wanting independence. She needed the separation to look like a mutual parting.

Rowan leaned forward and met the lawyer gaze.

"Because the matriarch trades her son bedmates like used luxury sedans," Rowan stated.

Arthur choked on his next breath. The junior associates sitting along the wall froze in place. The scratching of pens stopped abruptly. Nobody moved.

Harlan reached across the table and snatched the fountain pen from Arthur fingers. His face burned a violent shade of red. He pressed the pen down and signed the authorization with enough force to tear the thick parchment.

"Process it today," Harlan ordered.

Rowan signed his portion without hesitation. He set the pen down and walked out of the office before the ink could dry.

The air in the underground parking garage felt damp and heavy. Harlan and Genevieve caught up to him near the exit ramp. The patriarch pulled a folded cashier check from his breast pocket.

"Three thousand dollars," Harlan spat. He threw the paper at Rowan.

The check fluttered down and landed in a puddle of oily slush near a storm drain.

"Buy a bus ticket out of the county and die quietly," Harlan finished.

Rowan looked at the soggy paper. He did not bend down to retrieve it. He met Harlan furious stare and offered a slow smile. He turned his back on the Sterling family and walked up the concrete ramp into the autumn drizzle.

The cold rain washed the last traces of the sterile mansion from his skin. Rowan walked three miles toward the harbor district. The sky darkened into a deep grey. He stopped outside the Miller Station Bodega. A flickering neon beer sign illuminated the wet sidewalk.

He stepped inside the shop. The air smelled of old coffee and floor wax. He walked straight to the counter. The clerk was leaning against the register watching a muted television screen.

In his previous life, the nationwide Powerball had reached an astronomical record just before the power grid failed. The winning numbers had scrolled across emergency broadcast tickers while people froze in their living rooms. Rowan had stared at those digits for days as starvation set in. Those numbers were burned into his memory.

"One Powerball ticket," Rowan said. He placed a few crumpled bills on the glass. "Manual pick."

The clerk sighed and pulled a pencil from behind his ear. "Read them off."

"Zero eight," Rowan recited clearly. "Nineteen. Thirty one. Forty seven. Sixty three. The Powerball is zero nine."

The terminal clicked and whirred. A small slip of paper printed out from the machine. Rowan took the ticket and slipped it into his dry inner pocket. He walked out of the bodega and found a cheap motel near the shipping docks.

He paid for one night in cash and locked the door behind him. The room smelled of stale smoke and bleach. Rowan sat on the edge of the mattress and turned on the small television. He waited through hours of meaningless news and weather reports.

Midnight rolled in. The drawing commenced on screen.

The numbered balls dropped down the clear tube one by one. Eight. Nineteen. Thirty one. Forty seven. Sixty three. The red ball dropped last. Nine.

The news anchor announced the results with a wide smile. The ticker confirmed a single winning ticket had been sold in the state.

Rowan pulled the slip of paper from his pocket. He looked at the numbers under the dim motel lamp. The lump sum settlement would deposit nearly one hundred and fifty million dollars into his possession.

The apocalypse was twenty days away. Rowan was now armed with the exact resources he needed to build his fortress.