The room on the thirty-second floor had been designed for intimidation: long walnut table, city skyline beyond glass, curated art suggestive of taste without controversy. She entered wearing a dark suit and no visible sentiment, carrying nothing but a slim folder. Half the board had never seen her speak at length. Several had met her only once or twice years earlier, introduced as Julian’s unusually intelligent but private wife.
Now they stood when she entered.
That, more than anything, told her how power worked. Not morality. Not justice. Recognition.
Thomas Grainger, the interim chair, cleared his throat. “Ms. Vance.”
“Ms. Vance is fine,” she said, taking her seat. “And because I am not here to enjoy ceremony, let’s begin.”
There was a restrained rustle of repositioned papers.