The double doors opened.
Every sound in the room sharpened as I walked in. My heels clicked across marble with measured certainty. I did not rush. Predators never do. I saw all of it in an instant: Randolph’s confusion, Prescott’s outrage, the board’s curiosity, the first flash of recognition in one elderly investor who had once heard my voice on a conference call and was now trying to place it.
I stopped at the head of the table beside my father.
Prescott lurched to his feet. “What is she doing here?” he shouted. “How did she get in? Security!”
He pointed at me like I was vermin.
“This woman is unstable,” he told my father. “She’s my estranged wife. She’s been harassing my family. She has nothing to do with this company or your investment.”
Security rushed in. So did my father’s men. They moved faster, cleaner, and with enough visible force to freeze the room where it stood. The corporate guards halted when they found themselves facing private security armed with the kind of presence that says taking one more step would be a profound life error.
The guards retreated.
My father rose slowly.
“You dare,” he said to Prescott, each word harder than the last, “call security on my daughter?”