“Inconveniently, yes.”
Her eyes darted to the glass wall, to my name, back to me. Her lips parted but no sound emerged for a moment.
“That’s not possible.”
There is a particular tone privileged people use when reality fails to honor their assumptions. Not outrage, exactly. More intimate than that. Betrayal. As though the universe has violated a private contract by allowing the wrong sort of person access to power.
“I assure you,” I said, “it is.”
By then, several of my senior partners had slowed near the far end of the corridor under the pretense of heading to another meeting. Assistants at the reception desk had fallen into that immaculate stillness employees adopt when something extraordinary is happening and everyone knows pretending not to notice would be ridiculous.
Constance lowered her voice, but not enough.
“You lied.”
“No. I omitted.”
“You let us believe—”
“I let you reveal yourselves.”
The words struck her harder than shouting would have.
She stepped toward me. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“Yes.”
“Harold’s firm could collapse.”
“That is a risk.”
“You cannot make decisions like this based on a personal disagreement.”
I nearly admired the audacity of it.