Some understood Naomi controlled it.
Others apparently did not.
She entered without announcement.
A young receptionist near the door looked up.
“Good evening.”
“Good evening.”
“Are you here with one of the service teams?”
Naomi paused.
“No.”
The receptionist’s eyes moved toward the coat, dress, and boots.
She looked embarrassed.
“I’m sorry. Are you attending the closing reception?”
“Yes.”
“Name?”
Before Naomi could answer, laughter erupted beside the aircraft.
A silver-haired man in a charcoal suit was telling a story to a semicircle of executives.
Preston Vale.
Fifty-eight.
Net worth estimated by financial publications at just over two billion dollars.
Co-founder of Whitmore Vale Aviation.
He had made his first fortune selling a software company in the late 1990s, then invested heavily in aviation. His public reputation depended on charm, expensive charity dinners, and interviews about “old-school standards.”
Naomi’s internal deal notes described him differently.
Highly status-conscious. Limited operational involvement. Strong influence over commercial decisions.
A man beside Preston noticed Naomi.
He whispered something.
Preston looked over.
His gaze traveled from her boots to the green coat.
Then her sunglasses.
He smiled.
Not warmly.
He excused himself from the group and walked toward her.
“You looking for the fashion event?”
Several men behind him laughed.
Naomi looked at him through the dark lenses.
“No.”
Preston smiled wider.
“Then somebody gave you the wrong address.”
The receptionist stepped forward nervously.
“Mr. Vale, she said she’s here for the closing reception.”
Preston glanced toward Naomi’s handbag.
Then at her again.
“Whose guest?”
Naomi allowed several seconds of silence.
“Carter Meridian.”
That changed nothing in his expression.
He assumed affiliation.
Assistant.
Consultant.
Maybe a guest brought by someone on the buyer’s team.
“Carter people are in the conference room.”
He gestured toward the far end of the hangar.
“You’ll need a credential to go past the aircraft.”
Naomi looked toward the jet.
“I’m actually here to inspect it.”
Preston laughed.
The men behind him joined in.
One of them, a private-equity partner named Charles Avery, lifted his champagne glass.
“Inspection team got considerably better dressed.”
More laughter.
Naomi looked toward Avery.
He smiled as though he had paid her a compliment.
She returned her attention to Preston.
“I’d like to see the aircraft.”
“What part?”
“The cabin first.”
Preston stared for a second.
Then turned toward the men behind him.
“Should we give her the tour?”
Avery laughed.
“Depends whether she wants financing.”
The laughter became louder.
One younger employee standing near a tool cart did not laugh.
Naomi noticed.
She noticed almost everything.
Preston stepped closer.
“This aircraft is part of a seven-hundred-seventy-million-dollar transaction.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
His smile tightened.
“Then you understand we’re not letting people wander through the cabin because they like the upholstery.”
Naomi removed her sunglasses.
The conversation around them softened.
Her eyes were not angry.
That seemed to bother him.
“I’m not interested in the upholstery.”
“What are you interested in?”
“Maintenance history, cabin modifications, communications systems, and confirmation that the interior configuration matches the schedule attached to the purchase agreement.”
Silence.
Avery lowered his glass.