Maddie shrugged out of a dark coat that made midnight look cheap and draped it on the back of his chair without asking. The room shifted around her, someone had once told him that true power wasn't about being loud. She didn't rearrange the room. She rearranged him.
"Tea?" he tried, because niceties sometimes could put a seatbelt on chaos.
"No," she said, looking past him to the window. "It's time."
He swallowed. "Time for…?"
"The last leg," she said, turning. "Access. Electrical. Your badge opens that level of security.
My people will take four minutes total. They'll plug a box into the trunk the ballroom screens feed from. That's it."
"An interview," he said, remembering the clip she'd sent—the tight frame, the leading questions, the headline written for the algorithm and not the truth.
"You're going to air it during the gala."
"Not I," she corrected softly. "The building will. Such a generous host."
He stared at her. "Maddie, this will..."
