"He may see you," Loretta said. "But he won't get to decide whether you belong in this room."
The clock turned to ten. The lights above the stage grew brighter, the side doors closed, and Patricia Holt stepped to the microphone. Bradley Kincaid straightened his tie and settled into the front aisle, ready to hear what he believed would be the beginning of the rest of his career.
"Good morning, everyone," Patricia said. "Thank you for coming in early and for keeping the company running through a busy week. Ten days ago, Belmont Row began a new chapter under the ownership of Harbor Gate Capital. Today our new owner will speak to you personally about the next steps."
A ripple of applause moved across the room. Bradley rose halfway from his chair before remembering that Patricia had not called his name. Sloane's phone was already streaming, its screen filled with comments from people expecting a celebratory announcement. Behind Bradley, Dennis sat rigid, his hands joined so tightly that his knuckles had turned pale.
"Bradley," Patricia continued, "you are currently our chief operating officer and the nominee for chief executive. Would you place the call to our owner?"
The audience applauded more loudly. Bradley stood with the smile he had practiced in the terrace windows, adjusted his cuffs, and approached the podium. He shook Patricia's hand for the cameras and placed his own phone beside the microphone as though he were hosting a meeting with a dignitary. Then, before dialing, he looked toward the first row and saw Loretta sitting beside Teresa.
His smile dropped for an instant. "Before we do this," he said into the microphone, "security, the lady in the front row isn't an employee. And the woman beside her isn't one anymore either. Can we clear this up?"
A confused murmur moved through the chairs. Several employees turned toward Loretta, some recognizing the quiet woman from the viral clip, others seeing Teresa for the first time since her dismissal. Hayley stood near the side wall, her face flushed. At the rear of the room, two security officers hesitated because no one had yet established that the women were unauthorized visitors.
"Make the call first, Bradley," Patricia said. "The owner is waiting."
Bradley looked from Patricia to the audience. He wanted to object, but the room had gone quiet in a way he did not like. An executive who insisted on arguing with a front-row guest before speaking to a new owner might seem petty, and he was still performing for cameras. He forced another smile, dialed the number printed on Patricia's card, and switched the call to speaker.
The tone rang once. Then a woman's voice answered, warm and unmistakably familiar to exactly two people in the room. "Good morning, Mr. Kincaid. This is Loretta Simmons."
Bradley stared at the phone. "I'm sorry, who is this?"
"Loretta Simmons," the voice repeated. "You can hang up now. I'm coming up."