But that was three blocks away and closing fast.
Outside, Benjamin heard it before he saw it. The low, heavy purr of a V12 engine. The kind of sound that doesn't hurry. The kind that arrives.
A black Mercedes Maybach turned the corner onto Fifth Avenue. Benjamin straightened his coat. He smoothed the photograph one last time and slipped it into his breast pocket over his heart. The car pulled to the curb directly in front of Sterling and Hale. The officer on the sidewalk stood up straight. He looked at the car, then at Benjamin, then back at the car.
The rear door opened. A pair of polished black oxfords touched the pavement. Then a hand gripped the doorframe, strong, deliberate. A man rose from the back seat and stood at full height on the sidewalk.
Nathan Wells, 45 years old, 6-foot-2, wore a dark navy suit cut so precisely it looked like it had been stitched onto his body. A Patek Philippe rested on his left wrist: midnight blue dial, Calatrava collection, Ref. 5227G. The same watch Benjamin had asked to see.
Nathan's driver stayed in the car. No entourage, no assistant, just him. He didn't look at the store. He didn't look at the officer. He looked at the bench. His father was sitting there with his hands folded on his lap, his worn coat buttoned to the top, his eyes steady and warm.
Nathan walked toward him, each step slower than the last, not because he was hesitant, because he was furious. And the only thing keeping that fury in check was the sight of his father's face. He reached the bench. He knelt down on one knee right there on the Fifth Avenue sidewalk and took his father's hands.
"Dad." His voice broke on the word. "I'm here." Benjamin smiled the same small private smile from before, but fuller now, warmer. "I know, son. I knew you'd come."
Nathan pulled Benjamin into his arms and held him right there in front of the glass doors of Sterling and Hale in front of the officer in front of the city. The officer took a step back. He removed his hand from his radio. Inside the store, Megan looked up from the front desk. She saw the car first, then the man, then the embrace. Her face went white.
She recognized him. Every employee at Sterling and Hale recognized Nathan Wells. His photograph was in every training manual, every quarterly report, every corporate email that started with a message from our CEO. Megan's mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Derek hadn't noticed yet. He was still at the bracelet counter with Mrs. Holt back turned to the window, but Allison had noticed. She stood by the watch case, watching through the glass. And for the first time all day, she smiled.
Nathan helped Benjamin to his feet. He brushed the dust off his father's coat gently. The way you handle something precious. "Did they hurt you?" "No, son. Just words."
"Words can break bones, too, Dad." Nathan's jaw was set. His eyes moved to the glass doors of Sterling and Hale. "Stay here one minute, Nathan. One minute."
Nathan turned and walked toward the entrance. His stride was measured, controlled. The kind of walk that doesn't announce power. It simply assumes it. He pushed the door open. The chime rang once, soft, almost cheerful.
Derek heard it. He turned from the bracelet counter, saw the suit, saw the posture, and his entire body language shifted, shoulders back, chin up, smile wide. "Mr. Wells.