Floor-to-ceiling windows. Italian marble. The kind of corporate opulence built to intimidate.

I stepped out in a borrowed gray blazer—my roommate’s, two sizes too big—carrying a leather portfolio I’d bought at a thrift store for twelve dollars.

The security guard at the boardroom door held up his hand. “Name?” he asked.

“Cecily Ashford,” I said. He checked his tablet and frowned.

“You’re not on the authorized attendee list,” he said.

“I’m an Ashford Holdings employee, and I have business with the board,” I stated clearly.