The Harbor Room usually seated thirty.
That night, only fourteen chairs surrounded the long walnut table.
Folders had been placed at every seat.
Heavy paper.
Embossed logos.
Mercer Urban.
Caldwell Capital.
Bennett Infrastructure Partners.
Three companies whose names appeared on office towers, construction signs, investment reports, and newspaper business pages.
At the far end of the room, architectural renderings showed what the old industrial waterfront was supposed to become.
Glass towers.
Public parks.
Transit access.
Hotels.
Shops.
Housing.
A marina.
The estimated development value printed beneath the project name was $1.34 billion.
I knew almost nothing about the details.
But even I understood the atmosphere.
People had spent months getting to this table.
Lawyers had billed thousands of hours.
Financial models had been tested.
Banks consulted.
City officials courted.
Contracts rewritten.
Every person in the room had expected the biggest problem that night to be a clause, a valuation, or a risk allocation.
Instead the biggest problem was standing near the door in a borrowed clean blouse with damp hair.
Me.
Daniel rose when I entered.
Only then did everyone else stand.
That bothered me.
Not because they stood.
Because they hadn't when Sloane poured Coke over a waitress.
Power teaches people strange manners.
“Sit down,” I said.
It came out sharper than I intended.
Everyone did.
Sloane sat beside her father.
Evan beside his.
Neither looked at me.
Daniel pulled out the chair next to his.
I sat.