“You spent so much of your childhood trying to prove you didn't need your father.”
Naomi looked down.
“I know.”
“And now you're afraid people will think you're using him.”
Her daughter's eyes filled.
“Yes.”
Elena nodded.
“Then remember why you're doing this.”
Naomi stared.
Her mother continued.
“Not because you want to hurt someone. Not because you want to be rich. Not because you want the company to apologize for the years your father wasn't there.”
She paused.
“You want to know whether the people controlling his work are telling the truth.”
Naomi nodded.
“Yes.”
Elena smiled gently.
“Then hold on to that.”
For a moment, they sat together in silence.
Then her mother added.
“And don't let anybody make you ashamed of the uniform you wear.”
Naomi looked up.
Elena continued.
“Honest work doesn't take away your intelligence.”
Tears filled Naomi's eyes.
She leaned forward and embraced her mother.
For a long time, neither spoke.
Then Elena whispered the words Naomi would remember when Graham Whitlock pointed his finger at her the following morning.
“You don't have to become important before you're allowed to be right.”
The board meeting began at nine.
Naomi arrived two hours earlier.
She inspected the coffee service, arranged clean cups beside the polished wooden table, and checked that the hospitality station was stocked.
The boardroom was magnificent.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Manhattan.
The conference table was long enough to seat fourteen people comfortably, though only a smaller group of executives and advisers would attend the final signing session.
Leather chairs stood evenly spaced around it.
Digital displays showed financial summaries.
And neatly arranged folders rested before each director.
Naomi recognized Graham when he arrived.
He wore a black three-piece suit.
He carried no briefcase.
An assistant followed him with two leather portfolios and a tablet.
Graham walked toward the window, spoke briefly on the phone, then turned toward the table.
He didn't acknowledge Naomi.
Neither did his assistant.
The chairman arrived shortly afterward.
Arthur Bellamy moved carefully, leaning slightly on a polished wooden cane he had recently begun using after an injury.
He wore a dark navy suit and rectangular glasses.
His expression was serious.
When Naomi placed coffee beside him, he looked up.
“Thank you.”
She paused.
The voice was familiar.
Not because she'd heard it recently.
Because she remembered Arthur from a photograph taken at her father's funeral.
He had stood near the front of the memorial chapel, holding a folded program and looking devastated.