She listened, her pen hovering over a yellow legal pad.

I held my breath, watching the tiny blue veins in Grace’s temple pulse.

“We can accommodate that, but only under our terms,” Grace said, writing down a single time on her pad.

She looked up at me, her eyes hard and bright.

“No Adrian. Just you.”

A pause stretched over the line, heavy with the weight of the Whitmore billions.

“We will expect you in thirty minutes,” Grace said, then hung up.

She set the receiver down on its cradle with a soft thud.

“Margaret?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

“She bypassed Adrian entirely,” Grace said, standing up and straightening her blazer.

“The press release we leaked to the financial wires is already circulating among their board members.”

“What did she say?”

“She said her son is a fool who doesn’t understand the concept of containment,” Grace replied.

She walked over to the office door and locked it, then turned back to me.

“She’s coming here. Personally.”

My stomach turned over.

Margaret Whitmore did not visit office buildings in midtown; people went to her.