I knew the exact numbers because my acquisition team had quietly bought up two of the secondary mortgages on the Ralston commercial properties last month.

“This is a personal guarantee, Gloria,” I said, keeping my voice flat.

“It is a standard administrative adjustment,” she said, tapping her manicured fingernails against her leather handbag.

She looked around my office, her eyes lingering on the modest watercolor prints and the simple oak desk.

“I suppose a space like this doesn’t require much understanding of high-level finance,” she said, her lip curling slightly.

“You run your little consulting firm, you pay your phone bill, and you think you understand how empires are run.”

I did not point out that the building we were sitting in was owned by a holding company she had never heard of, which in turn was owned by me.

“I understand enough to know that a personal guarantee means Graham is on the hook if the trust defaults,” I said.

Gloria laughed, a sharp, dry sound that had no warmth in it.

“The Ralston trust does not default, Jocelyn,” she said.