Monday morning, Helena calls me into her office before I reach my desk.
Not a message. Not a calendar invite. She appears in the corridor when she hears the lift and says, "Now please," and walks back without checking if I am following because Helena Cross has never needed to check if people are following.
I follow.
She closes the door.
There is something on her desk. A folder, cream coloured, thick, sitting in the centre with the deliberate placement of something that has been thought about.
"Sit down," she says.
I sit.
She sits across from me, not behind the desk, the visitor chair configuration she used the morning I confronted her about the building. Same side as me. Which means this is not a management conversation.
"Callum Reid is offering you equity," she s
