"Move toward the door."
"My name is Malik Ashworth. I'm here to meet the board."
Preston approached, already annoyed that the matter wasn't finished.
"What's taking so long?"
"He says he has an appointment," Curtis replied.
"Of course he does." Preston folded his arms. "I've seen his type before. They come in looking for someone important, then stand around until they can slip upstairs. Get him out."
Malik looked directly at him. "Sir, you can verify my appointment in less than a minute."
"Don't tell me how to run my building."
"I'm not. I'm asking you to check my name."
Preston's face hardened. "I've already heard enough."
Curtis grabbed Malik's arm. The folder slipped. Papers struck the floor and spread beneath the reception lights. Malik instinctively bent to catch them, and Curtis mistook the movement for resistance.
"Hands behind your back."
"What? No. I'm picking up my documents."
Curtis twisted his arm. Malik stumbled, catching himself before his shoulder struck the floor. Cold metal closed around his wrists.
Click. Click.
The sound traveled through the lobby.
Elise stood frozen behind reception. She had Malik's name in the search field, and the executive visitor list was still loading on a second screen. She knew she had not finished checking. She also knew she had just watched a man get restrained before anyone established whether he'd done anything wrong.
A woman near the elevators lifted her phone. Two employees moved away as though distance might excuse them from making a decision. Nobody intervened.
"Sir, I've done nothing wrong," Malik said. His voice was controlled, but the muscles in his neck were tight. "You're hurting my wrists."
Preston stepped closer. "You should have thought about that before coming in here."
"Coming in here to attend a meeting?"
"I don't care what you claim. You're not getting past this lobby."
Malik looked down at the papers scattered across the floor. At the top of the signature page, in bold print, were the words ASHWORTH CAPITAL - YARROW INDUSTRIES STRATEGIC INVESTMENT.
"Look at the folder," he said. "One page. That's all I'm asking."
Preston didn't move his eyes. "I don't need to read anything. I know a problem when I see one."
"You don't know anything about me."
"I know enough."
"No. You looked at me and decided."
Preston leaned close. "And my decision stands."
Curtis pulled Malik toward the glass doors. Malik winced as the cuffs pressed into his wrists. The pain wasn't unbearable, but humiliation burned hotter. He thought about his father teaching him to speak calmly in rooms where people had already decided not to listen. He thought about the promise he'd made to the manufacturing workers whose jobs depended on a responsible investment. He thought about the board waiting upstairs, unaware of what was happening beneath them.
He could shout that he controlled $350 million. He could announce the names of his lawyers. He could threaten Preston with a lawsuit. But standing cuffed in front of an audience, he knew every raised word could be twisted into an excuse for what had already happened.