“Clara?” he laughed, but the sound was muffled. “I think there’s a mistake. Clara has no connection to Forbes.”
“No mistake,” Harrington said calmly. “Actually, Mr. Whitmore, I’ve been chasing a shadow for months. My investigation into the city’s rapidly changing commercial landscape has brought me here. I need your daughter to confirm some crucial details before our lead story goes to press at midnight. It’s a matter that will change the Whitmore name forever.”
My father’s face hardened. He didn’t see a secret billionaire. He saw a problem.
“What’s she up to now? If she’s involved in some legal trouble or debt, I won’t let her ruin my reputation tonight. Clara, tell this man what trouble you’ve caused and go away.”
Daniel appeared soon after, followed by Christine. The favorite son had sensed a threat to the evening’s narrative and had come to support his father.
“What’s going on?” asked Daniel, standing next to our father in a show of family solidarity.
“This gentleman from Forbes says he’s having business with your sister,” my father said. “I was just explaining that there must have been a misunderstanding.”
Daniel looked at me with that expression he reserved for moments when I did something embarrassing.
“Clara, what is it about?”
“I don’t know yet,” I answered honestly. “Mr. Harrington hasn’t told me.”
“Then maybe you should ask him to leave. It’s Dad’s birthday, not a work meeting.”
Harrington remained unperturbed by the family solidarity.
“I understand this is an inopportune time. I wouldn’t be here if the matter weren’t urgent. We’re publishing an article tomorrow morning, and I need to speak to Ms. Whitmore before it goes to press.”
“An article about what?” my mother asked.
“As I said, this matter is confidential until Miss Whitmore and I have a chance to discuss it.”
The impasse dragged on for several seconds. The nearby guests had stopped pretending not to listen. The string quartet continued to play, their waltz providing an absurd soundtrack to the growing tension.
I made a decision.
“There’s a small conference room down the hall,” I said. “We can talk there.”
My father grabbed my arm, not roughly, but firmly enough to make me understand his objection.
“Clara, you mustn’t do this. We don’t know who this man really is or what he wants.”
“He showed me his credentials,” I said, gently freeing my arm from his grasp. “And whatever he has to say, I’d rather hear it in private than in front of all your guests.”
“We should come with you.”
“No.”
The word surprised him. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d refused something directly to my father. He was so accustomed to my compliance that my refusal seemed to leave him momentarily speechless. I took advantage of the silence to walk away, Harrington following me briskly.
“Thank you,” he said softly as we made our way through the crowd. “It will be easier to talk about this without an audience.”
I didn’t answer. I was too aware of the stares fixed on us, of the whispers beginning to spread, of the social calculations being recalculated by everyone who witnessed the exchange.
The conference room was small and functional, clearly a space intended for building management rather than elegant receptions. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the furnishings consisted of a scratched table surrounded by mismatched chairs. It was a stark contrast to the chandelier-lit ballroom we’d just left.
Harrington closed the door behind us and motioned for me to sit down.
I remained standing.
“Say what you came to say.”
He nodded, reaching into his jacket pocket for a leather briefcase.
“Miss Whitmore, I’ll get right to the point. Forbes is working on an article about anonymous investors who have quietly amassed huge real estate portfolios over the past decade. Our research has led us to a holding company called Whitfield Properties. Have you ever heard of it?”
I didn’t say anything.
“I understand your reluctance to confirm. Many of our interviewees prefer to remain anonymous. But the article will be published tomorrow morning anyway. I’m here tonight because we wanted to give you the opportunity to comment before publication.”
“Why tonight?” I finally asked. “Why didn’t we contact you through the usual channels?”
“We tried. Your representatives refused our requests for weeks. When we learned of your father’s birthday, we decided to make one last attempt. Tomorrow’s issue goes to press at midnight.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Just a confirmation. And, if you like, a brief comment for the article.”
I turned to him.
“What if I refuse to confirm?”
“We will publish based on our documentation. We have company records, property deeds, and financial statements.”
He laid out several documents on the table, documents I recognized, a paper trail that led unmistakably to me.
“Miss Whitmore, I’ve been doing this for thirty years. I’ve written profiles of billionaires and industrial magnates, but I’ve never seen…”
see the continuation on the next page
ADVERTISEMENT
