“You will have an opportunity to respond.”
She held his gaze.
“That process is not kindness.”
“It is what should happen when facts matter.”
Arthur looked toward the windows.
Thirty-two years of Manhattan moved beneath them.
Cars.
People.
Delivery trucks.
The city indifferent to his crisis.
Finally, he signed.
He left through the executive elevator.
Not the sales floor.
Amara watched the doors close.
Then exhaled.
Rebecca remained seated.
Naomi looked at her.
“You okay?”
Rebecca nodded automatically.
Then shook her head.
“No.”
That honesty pleased Amara.
Rebecca said:
“I’m probably going to lose my job.”
“Why?”
“I worked under him.”
“So did dozens of people.”
“I participated.”
Amara considered.
“Did you violate policy?”
Rebecca looked down.
“Probably.”
“Then that will be reviewed.”
Rebecca’s shoulders fell.
Amara continued:
“But accountability is not the same as assuming everyone in a bad system is equally responsible.”
Rebecca looked up.
“You spoke today.”
“That matters.”
“It does not erase what came before.”
“That matters too.”
Rebecca nodded.
Amara stood.
“Go home early.”
“I have clients.”
“Someone else will cover.”
Rebecca almost laughed.
“You really own the place.”
Amara smiled faintly.
“Technically the investment group owns controlling interest.”
Rebecca stared.
“That's a very finance answer.”
“It is.”
For the first time all day, Amara laughed.
Then she looked toward the conference-room glass.
The boutique floor lay below.
Perfect lighting.
Perfect shelves.
Perfect luxury.
And beneath all of it, an imperfect system.
That was what she had actually purchased.
Not marble.
Not handbags.
Not prestige.
Problems.
Every acquisition came with them.
This one simply revealed itself faster than expected.
Amara had not grown up around luxury retail.
That was another assumption Arthur would have been wrong about.
Her mother, Rochelle Bennett, worked in pharmaceutical procurement.
Her father taught high-school mathematics.
They lived in New Jersey.
Comfortable.
Not wealthy.
Amara’s first experience inside an expensive department store happened when she was eleven.
Her mother received a promotion.
To celebrate, Rochelle decided to buy herself one good handbag.
Not because she needed it.
Because she wanted something unnecessary after years of choosing practical.
They drove into Manhattan.
Amara remembered the excitement.
Her mother wore a blue dress.
Fresh manicure.
Hair done.
They entered a luxury floor.
Nobody greeted them.
A sales associate looked at them twice.
Then continued helping another customer who had arrived later.
Rochelle waited.
Eventually she asked about a bag.
The associate said:
“That collection starts at twelve hundred dollars.”
Not hello.
Not certainly.
The price.
Amara remembered her mother’s face.
The smallest change.
Rochelle replied: