The reception desk stood in the center of the lobby like a throne. Behind it stood a woman in her thirties, wearing a perfectly tailored blazer, her blond hair pulled back so tightly it looked painful. Her name badge read Courtney – Customer Relations Manager . She wore a smile that was really just a flick of her lips.
“Hello,” said Diana. “Diana Reeves-Holloway. I have an appointment at 10 o’clock with Mr. Whitmore.”
Courtney’s eyes fell on her planner. She ran a manicured fingernail along the page until it stopped on “D. Reeves, 10:00 a.m.” Something changed on her face. A small, quick change. Like a door closing behind someone’s eyes.
“Of course,” said Courtney. “He’s just finishing something. Please sit down.”
Diana held his gaze for another second. Not long enough to be rude. Just long enough to let Courtney know she’d noticed. She turned and headed toward the waiting room. Four white leather armchairs were arranged around a low glass table. She chose the one facing the room, placed her slim leather wallet on her lap, and sat down.
10:15 passed, then 10:15 again. The lobby moved around her like a slow-moving river. A man in a gray suit crossed the space, talking on his phone. Two young associates in matching navy blazers stepped out of an elevator, laughing about something. A courier dropped off an envelope and left.
Diana didn’t look at her phone. She didn’t cross or uncross her legs, didn’t drum her fingers on her wallet. She simply observed the room. She had learned long ago that the way you wait says a lot about who you are. And she had no intention of showing the receptionist at Bradford Whitmore anything that could be used against her.
At 10:30, Courtney appeared somewhere to Diana’s right, walking with a stack of files under her arm. She glanced around as she passed.
“He won’t be long,” she said without stopping.
No apology. No explanation. A rejection disguised as reassurance. Diana watched her walk away. She placed her hand flat on her wallet. Steady, unhurried. The leather was soft beneath her palm. Inside the folder were documents Courtney had no idea existed. Documents the man upstairs didn’t know were thirty meters from her reception desk.
This thought settled in Diana’s chest like a warm ember.
Take your time , she thought. Take all the time you need.
10:40 a.m. The jazz above her changed to something softer. One of the young associates reappeared briefly, glanced at Diana as one might look at a piece of furniture, and disappeared through a side door. Diana exhaled slowly through her nose. She thought about the meeting she had driven all the way here for. Thirteen years of work.
Her first company, built from scratch in a studio apartment. The second, sold for enough money to get people calling again. The third and fourth, consolidated within Reeves Capital Group: eleven companies, hundreds of millions under management, a deal that had taken three weeks to prepare. And there she was, sitting in a waiting chair at 10:44 a.m.
She glanced up at the hall clock above the reception desk. The second hand moved with quiet, indifferent precision. She had granted Bradford Whitmore exactly what he had asked for: her time, her patience, and the benefit of every doubt she possessed. What he didn’t yet know was that she was keeping score.
The clock struck 10:45. Diana crossed her ankles, straightened her back, and waited.
