The first door opened. Security emerged. Then my father stepped out. He wore a charcoal suit and looked like what he was: a man capable of buying and burying entire industries before lunch. His silver hair was brushed back. His watch caught the light only if you knew enough to look. He moved with the indifference of a man who did not need anyone in the room to like him because, economically speaking, he could rearrange their lives without permission.
Randolph nearly tripped over himself getting to him.
“Welcome, welcome,” he gushed. “It is an honor beyond words.”
My father shook his hand once. Prescott stood beside Randolph grinning like a courtier at the arrival of a king. He did not recognize the man whose callused hands he had mocked, because like all shallow people he believed costumes made reality.
They escorted him up. They seated him at the conference table. Randolph placed the folder in front of him. Prescott floated. Board members beamed.
And then my father pushed the folder back.
“I’m not the person who signs this,” he said.
Randolph blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“I’m chairman,” my father said. “Operational authority sits with the chief executive.”
A beat.
“She’s here.”