Annie turned away from him, beginning a slow, deliberate circle around the table. The heels of her sensible work shoes clicked rhythmically on the hardwood. “To answer that,” Annie said, “we have to define value. You think value is a price tag. You think it’s what you can buy at an auction.” She stopped behind a heavyset woman draped in emeralds. Mrs. Beatrice Calloway, the wife of a steel magnate. Beatrice looked nervous, clutching her pearl-handled purse. “Take Mrs. Calloway, for instance,” Annie said softly. She gestured to the massive diamond pendant resting on the woman’s chest. “The Star of the East, insured for four million dollars.” Vance smirked. “A good guess, but not the most expensive.” “I know it’s not,” Annie said. “Because it’s a fake.”
Mrs. Calloway gasped, her hand flying to her throat. “How dare you?” “The real diamond was sold three months ago in Zurich,” Annie continued, her voice calm, factual. “To pay off a blackmailer who has photos of your husband, Mr. Calloway, entering a hotel room with his nineteen-year-old intern. You wear the paste replica to keep the stock price of Calloway Steel from plummeting due to a scandal. The value of the necklace is zero. The cost of the secret? That’s rising every day.” The room went deathly silent. Mr. Calloway turned a shade of purple, looking at his wife, who refused to meet his eyes.
Annie did not stop. She moved to the next chair. A young, aggressive hedge-fund manager named Marcus Thorne sat there. He was known as the golden boy of the Nasdaq. “And you, Mr. Thorne,” Annie said, resting a hand on the back of his chair. He flinched. “You’re wearing a Patek Philippe Grandmaster Chime. Two-point-six million on the secondary market.” “Damn straight,” Thorne said, finding his voice. “And it’s real.” “The watch is real,” Annie agreed. “But the money you bought it with isn’t yours. You’ve been leveraging client funds from the pension accounts to cover your losses on that failed crypto venture in the Bahamas. You’re not a millionaire, Marcus. You’re a fraud. If the SEC looked at your laptop, the one currently sitting in your coat-check bag, you’d be in federal prison by sunrise.” Thorne’s glass slipped from his hand, shattering on the table. Wine bled across the white tablecloth like a fresh wound.
Vance was no longer smiling. He was sitting up straight, his eyes narrowed into slits. This was not a parlor game anymore. This was an execution. “Who are you?” Vance demanded, his voice low and dangerous. “I am the person who refills your glass,” Annie said, turning back to face him. “I am the furniture. I am the background noise. And do you know what happens when you treat people like furniture, Sebastian? You forget that they have ears.” She walked toward the center of the room, standing directly under the crystal chandelier. “I have served this room for six months,” she said, addressing the terrified group. “I have heard your whispers. I have heard your phone calls in the hallway when you thought you were alone. I know about the bribes. I know about the offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands. I know about the illicit affairs.”