Rosalind sat at the far end of the mahogany table, right under the Venetian glass chandelier.

Ten board members lined the sides, laptops open next to matching china coffee cups.

Spencer stood at the podium next to a projected slide of real estate acquisition forecasts, fiddling with his silver cuff links.

The room went dead silent when my coat landed on the back of an empty chair.

“Vivian,” Rosalind said, tapping her index fingernail on the polished wood.

“This is a closed executive session.”