The firm’s boardroom smelled like polished wood and expensive cologne. Men with quiet voices and still hands sat around the table, and Conley sat at the head like a small sun. He didn’t look at me often; it wasn’t necessary. There was a trust that the seams were tight and that I would make sure of it.
The negotiation ran long. I made notes, arranged the exhibits, and when it was over I prepared the exit like a stage manager—coats ready, cars summoned, the right smiles briefed. Conley thanked me with a look that made my skin prickle—private approval wrapped in public restraint. He didn’t touch me in the room. Not there. The rules of the courthouse, of the boardroom, of the public eye made intimacy a contraband currency.
When we arrived back at the mansion, dusk had already begun to press
