It was one of seven flagship properties owned by the hospitality group that Clara Vance had built, from nothing, over eleven years, before her husband got sick, before Lily had learned to ask why Daddy couldn’t come back down from heaven.

She had poured her whole self into that company, alongside the man whose flowers she now carried, and it had grown into an empire, and this marble lobby, these crystal chandeliers, the very desk these two men stood behind, were hers.

And it was her deliberate practice never to announce her visits.

She dressed plainly, and arrived alone, and simply watched, because she had learned, over eleven years of building something, a principle she considered the truest measure of a company’s soul.

Corporate reports, she always said, show you the numbers.