Ethan noticed immediately.
His steps slowed.
Richard Whitmore’s company logo stretched across the marble wall behind the reception desk in silver letters nearly six feet high:
WHITMORE URBAN DEVELOPMENT GROUP
A company that had spent the last six months quietly bleeding money after a disastrous expansion deal in Miami collapsed.
A company that desperately needed the investment partnership my firm controlled.
A company whose board had spent two weeks begging for this meeting.
And whose owner had just thrown my son and granddaughter onto a park bench.
“Mara’s waiting in Conference A,” the receptionist said carefully.
I nodded once.
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