Charles Sterling nodded, his gray eyebrows knitting together.

“We were just talking about the old days, Evelyn,” Charles said. “We were remembering the recipe for the signature lavender shortbread at the Park Avenue parlor.”

“My mother spent three months in Grasse perfecting that scent,” I said. “She wanted the guests to feel the calm of the French countryside the moment they checked in.”

“Exactly,” Charles said. “But Bennett wants to replace it with a synthetic brand from New Jersey. He says it saves forty cents a room.”

“Forty cents to lose our soul,” Arthur said, shaking his head.

“The brand is not the real estate, Arthur,” I said softly. “It is the hospitality. The details. The promises we made to your families when you first wrote those checks.”

“We know that, Evelyn,” Arthur said. “But Bennett holds the majority of the voting shares now. He tells us the future is in digital scaling and automated check-ins.”

“The future is built on trust,” I said. “And the trust is slipping.”

“What are you doing here, Evelyn?”

The voice was sharp and familiar.

Bennett stood behind me.