Harmon shifts to his back foot, readying another speech. I can see the thought form before it reaches his mouth.
“Not tonight.”
Two words. The room flinches. Sixty-seven conversations that weren’t happening still don’t resume. They’ve learned I can speak. That’s enough.
Harmon blinks. “Of course. Perhaps at a more convenient time.”
There won’t be one. But he needs to believe otherwise.
Charles Whitford arrives from my left. Designer suit, last season’s cut. Westfield Avenue’s gatekeeper—three properties I need, zero intention of selling. Yet.
“Mr. Bavga,” he says, handshake firm but not challenging. “Quite the weather we’ve been having.”
Small talk: the last refuge of men with nothing to say and everything to lose.
“I understand you’ve shown interest in Westfield properties,” he continues, sweating ahead of schedule.
“Prime locations. Historic value.”
Code for overpriced and irrelevant. I inventory his tells: hairline, tremor, ring. Marriage strained, wife across the room calculating her exit.
“My son’s also been exploring opportunities there,” he adds.
A power play—three beats too late. Junior Whitford will be exploring nothing but pain tonight. Dom and Ricky are delivering that message now.
Whitford checks his phone. No messages. Not yet.
“If you’ll excuse me.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I need to make a quick call.”
He’ll be calling his son. Again. He’s probably been trying for the last thirty minutes. Five missed calls already, I’d wager. No answer forthcoming.
I scan the room while maintaining the appearance of focused disinterest. A server moves through the crowd—brown hair pulled back, uniform one size too large. Early twenties. Carrying a tray weighted with champagne flutes. She navigates the space with precision, avoiding the councilman’s wife who’s had three drinks too many, sidestepping the banker who gestures too broadly when he speaks.
There’s hunger in her eyes. Not physical—something deeper. The kind that doesn’t fade with a meal. She calculates each step,each interaction. Minimizing exposure, maximizing efficiency. A survivor’s instinct wrapped in catering whites.
A drunk businessman steps back without looking. Collides with her left side. The tray tilts—champagne sloshes—recovers—tilts again—fails.
Crash.
Glass shatters against marble. Liquid splashes across three thousand dollars’ worth of shoes. The room freezes in tableau. Three women gasp in performative shock. The businessman begins a loud apology that’s really an accusation.
The server kneels, collecting shards with bare hands. Blank face. Not fear. Not shame. Nothing. Perfect compartmentalization.
Interesting.
She doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t assign blame. Doesn’t look up for help or down in shame. Simply executes the task with mechanical efficiency. Her hands should be shaking. They’re not.
I recognize the control. The internal discipline required to silence every natural response. To transform humiliation into procedure. To remain unmoved when every eye in the room judges your competence based on someone else’s carelessness.
She has more strength than anyone else here. And none of them see it.
The hotel manager—Mr. Weiss, according to his crooked name tag—storms across the marble like a coronary waiting to happen. Red-faced, sweat beading at his temples. The kind of man who believes volume equals authority.
“Ms. Rourke!” His voice cracks on the second syllable. Amateur. “This is completely unacceptable!”
The server—Rourke—continues collecting glass fragments. Methodical. Precise. Not looking up. Not slowing down.
“Do you have any idea what these cost?” Weiss gestures wildly at the shattered crystal. “Baccarat flutes. Borrowed specifically for this event.”