A silver nameplate sat in front of my microphone: *Jocelyn Vance, Chief Executive Officer, Vance Holdings.*

Below the dais, Table Forty-Two was covered in crisp white linen and surrounded by high-backed chairs.

Gloria Ralston sat there, wearing a heavy gold necklace that looked slightly tarnished under the bright stage lights.

Graham sat next to her, adjusting his cuffs with nervous, jerky movements.

He looked pale, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for potential investors to save his sinking firm.

Then, Gloria looked up toward the head table.

Her eyes scanned the city officials, stopped on me, and widened in confusion.

She nudged Graham’s arm, pointing a sharp, manicured finger.

Graham squinted, then froze.

The color completely left his face.

The master of ceremonies began speaking, but his words were just background noise to the silent stare-down.

During the first course, when the room became noisy with the clinking of silver forks, Graham stood up.

Gloria followed him immediately, her heavy silk skirt rustling loudly as she moved.

They walked toward the steps of the raised dais, their eyes locked on me.