Then at the microfiber towel.
Then back at Cassandra.
“You were right about one thing.”
Cassandra looked confused.
Simone lifted the key fob.
“The key only owns the car.”
She raised the folder slightly.
“This owns your workplace.”
No one laughed.
Cassandra recovered faster than Simone expected.
People who spent years surviving by presentation often did.
Her face changed first.
Shock disappeared.
Then embarrassment.
Then calculation.
“Ms. Carter.”
Her voice softened.
“I had absolutely no idea.”
Simone nodded.
“I know.”
“If I had known—”
Simone raised one hand.
Cassandra stopped.
That sentence.
That exact sentence.
Simone had heard versions of it her whole life.
If I had known you owned the company.
If I had known you were the client.
If I had known you were the one signing.
If I had known you mattered.
The sentence was usually offered as apology.
It was almost always confession.
Simone asked:
“If you had known what?”
Cassandra hesitated.
Martin watched.
Employees watched.
Cassandra smiled weakly.
“That you were here for the acquisition.”
Simone said nothing.
Cassandra continued.
“My comments were inappropriate.”
“Yes.”
“I apologize.”
“Why?”
Cassandra blinked.
“For misunderstanding.”
Simone looked at her.
“That’s not what happened.”
The room remained silent.
Cassandra’s cheeks flushed.
Simone continued.
“You saw a Black woman holding a cleaning cloth beside an expensive car.”
“You decided she worked beneath you.”