“YOU'RE JUST A MAID! SHUT YOUR MOUTH AND SERVE THE COFFEE!”
Graham Whitlock's voice exploded across the sixty-second-floor boardroom of Northstar Grid Solutions, making six senior executives turn toward the young Black woman standing beside the conference table.
Naomi Carter froze.
The silver tray in her hands held three porcelain coffee cups, a small cream pitcher, and a folded white napkin. She had spent the last forty minutes moving quietly between the executives, replenishing drinks and collecting empty glasses while the men discussed a transaction worth more money than she could imagine earning in ten lifetimes.
Nobody had asked her name.
Nobody had thanked her.
And until that moment, nobody had looked directly at her for more than a second.
Now the most powerful man in the room stood less than two feet from her face, pointing an accusing finger at her as though she had committed some unforgivable offense.
Graham was fifty-two, handsome in the cold, expensive way of a man who had never needed to wonder whether his next paycheck would arrive. His charcoal-black three-piece suit had been tailored in London, his watch cost more than Naomi's annual earnings, and the expression on his face suggested that he considered every person around him either an asset or an inconvenience.
He was a billionaire investor.
He controlled a substantial stake in Northstar Grid Solutions.
And if the men around that conference table signed the document lying before them, he would gain control of the company's most valuable technology.
Naomi had no intention of allowing that to happen.
Her hands trembled, but her voice did not.
“Sir, the document you're asking them to sign contains a false statement.”
Graham laughed.
Not because he found her remark amusing.
Because he wanted everyone in the room to understand how ridiculous he considered the idea of a housekeeping employee questioning his legal agreement.
“A false statement?”
He turned toward the other executives.
“Gentlemen, apparently our coffee service now includes legal advice.”
Two men smiled uncomfortably.
Another looked toward his papers.
At the head of the table, seventy-year-old chairman Arthur Bellamy remained silent, his silver eyebrows drawing together behind rectangular glasses.
Graham turned back toward Naomi.
“What's your name?”
“Naomi Carter.”
“And how long have you been practicing corporate law, Miss Carter?”
She swallowed.
“I haven't.”
“Then how exactly did you decide that a transaction reviewed by some of the most expensive attorneys in Manhattan contains a false statement?”