I turned my back on the computer and walked to the window.

Outside, a steady Manhattan rain washed over the grey stone of the Carlyle Hotel.

The yellow cabs below looked like tiny toys sliding through the wet streets.

“We need the investors,” I said softly.

“The original backers who believed in my family.”

Julian looked up from his notepad, his expression grim but attentive.

“Arthur Vance and the Vanguard group?” he asked.

“They are the only ones who can call an emergency board meeting,” I said.

“They invested in my father’s original recipes and my mother’s interior designs.”

“They did not invest in Bennett’s empty promises.”

“They have been loyal to the Whitlock name for thirty years,” Julian agreed.

“But Bennett has been feeding them lies about your mental health.”

“He told them you were retiring to the country due to exhaustion.”

“Then I need to show them I am very much awake,” I said.

I touched the cold glass of the window pane.

“The Metropolitan Hospitality Summit is tomorrow night,” I said.

“Bennett is hosting the keynote gala at The Monarch.”