They called it a review.
Not a hearing or a meeting. A review—clean, neutral, antiseptic. The kind of word people use when they want to rearrange your life without leaving fingerprints.
By the time I step into the glass-walled conference room, the room has already decided what tone it wants to wear. Cool. Polite. Observant.
Mrs. Eleanor sits at the far end of the table, hands folded, posture impeccable, face unreadable in the way only people with real leverage can manage. She doesn't belong here. She has never belonged here. And yet the room bends toward her like she does.
It wasn't Friday yet, but Mrs. Eleanor decided to hold a pre-review meeting. How strategic! The thought of it made me laugh.
That's the first warning. She isn't Wolfe Holdings. She doesn't need to be. Marcus bought her a voice, a seat.
"Ethan," she says, rising just enough to be courteous. "Thank you for making the time."
