The lobby of the Apex Club at three fifteen smelled of lemon polish and worn carpet.

Victoria Croft stood behind the front counter, smoothing the lapels of her blazer while I laid the folder of formal accounting letters on the marble.

“These need your signature to confirm receipt,” I said.

“All five pages, with the date and time on each one.”

Her pen moved without a tremor.

“Mr.

Vance’s guest privileges were suspended at eleven this morning.

Effective immediately, under the corporate membership clause.”