Claire felt like she was going to be sick.
"Move closer to the train station where you belong," Victoria sneered, looking down at him with absolute contempt, her hands on her hips. "Your presence here is damaging the reputation of these businesses. Go beg somewhere else."
For a long second, no one moved. The wind blew. The city kept moving, but on that small patch of sidewalk, time had stopped.
Then, the elderly man slowly placed his hands on his knees and pushed himself up from the freezing ground. He moved slowly, like his joints ached from the cold, but with a quiet dignity that made everyone around him feel small. He brushed the dust and slush from his worn tweed jacket and looked directly into Victoria's eyes.
"Arrogance has a way of returning to the person who carries it," he said, not with anger, but with a deep sadness. "And kindness has a way of being remembered, young lady. You should remember that."
Victoria rolled her eyes, completely unaffected by his words, already turning away.
"I am here to negotiate a contract that is worth more than your entire life and everyone you know combined," she replied. "I do not have time for street lectures from a beggar."
She turned on her heel, adjusted her maroon briefcase, and marched toward the revolving doors, her heels clicking.
"Claire, let's go! Now!"
Claire stood frozen. She looked down at the quarter by her shoe, at the old man standing alone in the cold, at the scattered coins in the dirty slush. Every instinct in her body told her to kneel down, pick up his bowl, and help him. But fear kept her feet planted. Fear of losing her job. Fear of losing her house. Fear of Victoria.
"I... I'm so sorry," she whispered to the old man, so quietly only he could hear. Her eyes filled with tears.
The old man looked at her and gave her a small, kind nod, as if to say he understood. "It's a cold world out here, isn't it, dear? Go on inside before you catch a cold yourself."
Claire finally turned and hurried inside, feeling ashamed of herself all the way to the elevator.
The executive conference room on the twelfth floor was everything you would expect from old Chicago money. Dark oak walls, a massive mahogany table that could seat twenty people, fresh white orchids, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city and the frozen lake. Three senior executives in expensive suits were already seated around the table, reviewing documents.