PART 2 — THE MAN BEHIND THE DRAWING
The stranger kept staring at my sketch as if he had forgotten I was sitting there.
Connor stood beside him, holding my portfolio carefully against his chest.
I glanced from one man to the other.
“No,” I finally said. “I don’t know whose building it is.”
The stranger smiled.
“That building belongs to me.”
For a moment, I thought I had misunderstood him.
I looked down at the drawing.
It was one of my favorite pieces—a forty-story Art Deco tower near the river, all limestone, bronze windows, and sharp geometric lines. I had drawn it three months earlier after spending nearly four hours sitting across the street with a coffee and my sketchbook.
“You own it?”
“Technically, my company does.”
He extended his hand.
“Daniel Whitmore.”
The name meant nothing to me at first.
But Connor’s posture immediately became more formal.
Then something clicked.
Whitmore Development.
Even I knew that name.
Their signs were everywhere in Chicago.
Luxury hotels.
Office towers.
Residential developments.
Historic restorations.
They owned enough property downtown that my father had mentioned the company several times during dinner conversations over the years.
Not kindly, either.
Usually with envy.
“You’re Daniel Whitmore?”
He gave a small nod.
“And you’re Amber Mitchell.”
I shook his hand, suddenly very aware that mine was trembling.
He sat in the chair across from me without waiting for an invitation.
“I was having dinner privately upstairs when Connor brought me your portfolio.”
I glanced toward Connor.
“I thought Mr. Whitmore should see it,” he explained.
Daniel opened my portfolio again.
“You drew the Whitmore Building from the east side.”
“Yes.”
“Most photographers shoot it from the river.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you?”
The question surprised me.
I looked at the drawing.
“Because everyone sees the river side.”
Daniel waited.
So I continued.
“The east side is imperfect.”
His eyebrows rose.
“The stone is darker near the lower floors. Two of the decorative panels don’t match because they were replaced decades later. And one row of windows is slightly uneven.”
I pointed toward the drawing.
“But when the afternoon sun hits it, those imperfections make the building look alive.”
Daniel studied me for several seconds.
“That is almost exactly what the architect told my grandfather when the restoration was completed.”
I felt something tighten in my chest.
Nobody in my family had ever listened to me talk about buildings like that.
Usually Dad would interrupt within thirty seconds and ask when I planned to find a “real profession.”
Daniel turned another page.
Then another.
He stopped at a charcoal drawing of the Chicago Board of Trade.
“How long did this take?”
“Six hours.”
“This one?”
“About nine.”
He continued turning pages.
Then he reached my watercolor of an abandoned theater on the South Side.
His expression changed again.
“This building is scheduled for demolition.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“I read about it.”
“Why did you paint it?”
“Because somebody should remember what it looked like before people decided it wasn’t worth saving.”
Daniel slowly closed the portfolio.
Then his eyes shifted toward the leather bill folder.
My father’s note was still lying beside it.
Let’s see how failure gets herself out of this one.
Daniel picked it up.
I instinctively reached forward.
“You don’t have to—”
But he had already read it.
His face became unreadable.
“Your father wrote this?”
I wanted to disappear.
“Yes.”
“And the bill?”
I swallowed.
“They left me with it.”
“All twelve thousand dollars?”
“Twelve thousand four hundred fifty-nine dollars and eighty-seven cents.”
Daniel stared at me.
“They ordered most of it.”
Connor quietly added, “Mr. Mitchell contacted us beforehand and specifically instructed staff that Miss Mitchell would be responsible for the account.”
Daniel looked toward him.
“Beforehand?”
Connor nodded.
“That means this was planned.”
I hated hearing someone else say it.
Somehow it made everything feel worse.
Daniel looked back at me.
“Why?”
I laughed once, but there was no humor in it.
“Apparently I needed life training.”
His eyes returned to the note.
“And they blocked your number?”
“Yes.”
“Because you lost your job?”
I hesitated.
“How did you know that?”
Connor looked uncomfortable.
I suddenly remembered what I had told him earlier while trying to explain why I couldn’t pay.
Daniel noticed my expression.
“He told me enough to understand the situation. Nothing inappropriate.”
I nodded.
“My gallery closed two months ago. My parents think that proves choosing art was a mistake.”
Daniel leaned back in his chair.
“And what do you think?”
It was such a simple question.
But nobody had asked me that.
Not once.
I looked down at my hands.
“I think losing one job shouldn’t decide whether the last six years of my life mattered.”
Daniel didn’t respond immediately.
Then he tapped one finger against my portfolio.
“They mattered.”
My throat tightened unexpectedly.
I looked away before either man could see my eyes filling.
Daniel turned toward Connor.
“Take the dinner off her account.”
I snapped my head back.
“What?”
Connor nodded immediately.
“Of course.”
“No.”
Both men looked at me.
I shook my head.
“You can’t just pay twelve thousand dollars for someone you met thirty seconds ago.”
Daniel smiled slightly.
“I’m not paying it.”
I frowned.
He looked toward Connor again.
“Charge the table exactly according to who ordered what. Her meal stays on her account. Everything ordered by the other four diners goes onto the cards attached to their reservation.”
Connor hesitated.
“Mr. Mitchell instructed—”
“I know what he instructed.”
Daniel’s voice remained calm.
But there was something in it now that made Connor straighten.
“Did Miss Mitchell agree beforehand to assume financial responsibility for everyone at the table?”
“No.”
“Did she sign anything?”
“No.”
“Then she pays for what she ordered.”
Connor nodded.
“I’ll speak with accounting.”
My heart began pounding again.
“Wait.”
Connor stopped.
“My father will dispute it.”
Daniel looked amused.
“He can.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I deal with wealthy men who believe rules are optional every day, Amber. I understand perfectly.”
Connor disappeared toward the back of the restaurant.
I stared at Daniel.
“Why are you doing this?”
His expression softened.
“Because humiliation isn’t life training.”
Those words hit harder than I expected.
For twenty-four years, I had been taught that cruelty was motivation.
That embarrassment made people stronger.
That if something hurt, it probably meant I deserved the lesson.
And now a complete stranger had summarized what my parents never understood in five words.
Humiliation isn’t life training.
Daniel opened my portfolio again.
“But solving your dinner problem isn’t actually why I came downstairs.”
I blinked.
“It isn’t?”
“No.”
He pulled his phone from his jacket.
“May I photograph three of these?”
My confusion deepened.
“For what?”
“I want to send them to someone.”
“Who?”
“My head of design.”
I stared at him.
He must have noticed that I was waiting for the joke.
There wasn’t one.
Daniel pointed to my watercolor of the abandoned theater.
“We recently acquired four historic properties in Chicago. Our design team is preparing redevelopment presentations.”
I nodded slowly.
“What does that have to do with me?”
“We’ve spent an embarrassing amount of money hiring photographers and rendering companies.”
He tapped the watercolor.
“None of them created anything that makes me feel the building the way this does.”
I didn’t know what to say.
Daniel continued.
“Our presentations are technically excellent and emotionally dead.”
He turned to the nighttime cityscape.
“Your work isn’t.”
My mouth went dry.
“Are you offering to buy a drawing?”
“I’m asking whether you take commissions.”
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because the entire evening had become impossible.
Forty minutes earlier, I had been sitting alone wondering whether police were going to be called because I had $267 in my bank account.
Now one of Chicago’s biggest developers was asking whether I took commissions.
“I’ve done some freelance work.”
“What do you charge?”
I froze.
That was the problem.
I had never been good at that question.
At the gallery, clients had bought pieces through the business. When someone approached me personally, I usually panicked and asked for far less than the work deserved.
Daniel seemed to read my hesitation.
“Don’t answer yet.”
He removed a business card.
“Come to my office Monday morning.”
I stared at it.
Whitmore Development Group.
Daniel Whitmore.
Chief Executive Officer.
A direct phone number was printed beneath his name.
“Bring your portfolio.”
“Why?”
“Because if my design director sees what I see, I want to discuss a project.”
“What kind of project?”
He smiled.
“One large enough that you shouldn’t negotiate the price while you’re emotionally recovering from a twelve-thousand-dollar dinner.”
For the first time that night, I laughed.
A real laugh.
Daniel smiled too.
Connor returned a few minutes later.
He placed a new bill beside me.
I looked at the total.
$48.62.
My entrée.
Sparkling water.
Tax.
Nothing else.
I nearly cried again.
Connor placed my father’s note beside the original receipt.
“I thought you might want these.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
His voice lowered.
“Keep documentation.”
Daniel’s eyes flicked toward him.
Something silent passed between them.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
Connor hesitated.
“Your father called about twenty minutes ago.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“He wanted to make sure you were still here.”
I stared at him.
Daniel’s expression hardened.
Connor continued.
“He specifically asked whether you had ‘learned your lesson yet.’”
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
My humiliation vanished.
Something colder replaced it.
“So he was checking?”
Connor nodded.
“He expected you to call.”
Of course he did.
Dad was probably sitting somewhere nearby with Mom, waiting for my desperate voicemail.
Maybe they had even rehearsed what he would say when he finally answered.
Are you ready to admit we were right?
Are you ready to grow up?
Are you ready to stop embarrassing us?
I picked up my phone.
Still blocked.
Suddenly, I didn’t feel desperate anymore.
I felt finished.
I paid the $48.62.
Then I left Connor a tip larger than my meal.
He tried to refuse it.
I insisted.
When I stood, Daniel handed me my portfolio.
“Monday. Ten o’clock.”
“I’ll be there.”
“And Amber?”
I looked at him.
“Don’t tell anyone about the meeting yet.”
“Why?”
“Because opportunities are easier to protect before people who don’t understand them start interfering.”
I thought immediately of my parents.
“Understood.”
Outside, Chicago air hit my face like cold water.
I stood beneath the restaurant awning clutching my portfolio.
I had expected to leave that building destroyed.
Instead, I walked out with a business card in my pocket and a strange feeling I had almost forgotten.
Possibility.
My phone buzzed before I reached the corner.
Riley.
ARE YOU OKAY???
I called her.
She answered before the first ring finished.
“Amber?”
“I’m okay.”
“What happened? Did they call the police? Do I need to come downtown? I can borrow money from my brother—”
“Riley.”
“What?”
“I paid forty-eight dollars.”
Silence.
Then—
“What?”
I started laughing.
And once I started, I couldn’t stop.
I leaned against the wall of a closed jewelry store while Riley repeatedly demanded an explanation.
I told her everything.
Connor.
Daniel.
The drawings.
The corrected bill.
The Monday meeting.
When I finished, Riley screamed so loudly I had to pull the phone away.
“WHITMORE DEVELOPMENT?”
“Please stop yelling.”
“Daniel Whitmore saw your portfolio?”
“Yes.”
“The Daniel Whitmore?”
“Yes.”
“And he wants you in his office Monday?”
“Yes.”
Another scream.
A couple walking past me turned around.
I covered my face.
“Riley.”
“I have been telling you for four years that your work is incredible.”
“My mother says your judgment is questionable.”
“Your mother also thinks beige is a personality.”
I burst out laughing.
Then Riley grew quiet.
“Amber.”
“Yeah?”
“Where are you going tonight?”
The laughter disappeared.
Home.
My parents’ house.
The realization landed heavily.
I didn’t want to see them.
More importantly, I didn’t want to give them another opportunity to humiliate me.
“I don’t know.”
“Come here.”
“You have roommates.”
“My roommates love you.”
“Your couch is approximately four feet long.”
“Then we’ll bend your knees.”
I smiled.
“I need my clothes.”
“So get them.”
“What if my parents are home?”
There was a pause.
“Do you want me to come?”
I looked back toward the restaurant.
Then at my father’s handwritten note still tucked inside my portfolio.
“No.”
I surprised myself with the certainty in my voice.
“I’ll handle it.”
An hour later, I pulled into my parents’ driveway.
Their cars were there.
Every light downstairs was on.
They were waiting.
I sat behind the wheel for almost five minutes.
Old Amber would have rehearsed an apology before walking through that door.
Old Amber would have tried to explain why the restaurant situation hadn’t been her fault.
Old Amber would have begged them to understand.
But I kept seeing the number on the bill.
$12,459.87.
Not because twelve thousand dollars frightened me anymore.
Because I finally understood what the number represented.
They had been willing to create a financial emergency just to make me feel small.
I walked inside.
Dad was sitting in the living room with a glass of bourbon.
Mom stood near the fireplace.
Neither looked worried.
Dad looked annoyed.
“Well?”
That was all he said.
Not Are you okay?
Not What happened?
Just—
“Well?”
I placed my portfolio beside the stairs.
“Well what?”
His eyes narrowed.
“Don’t play games, Amber.”
Mom crossed her arms.
“We expected a phone call.”
“I know.”
Dad leaned forward.
“Connor said there had been some confusion with the check.”
So he had already called again.
“There wasn’t confusion.”
“What did you do?”
“I paid my dinner.”
His expression changed.
“That’s impossible.”
“It cost forty-eight dollars.”
Dad stood.
“The account was twelve thousand.”
“Your account was.”
A flash of anger crossed his face.
“Don’t get smart with me.”
“I’m not.”
“What exactly did you tell them?”
“The truth.”
Mom stepped closer.
“Amber, your father was trying to teach you something.”
I looked at her.
“By abandoning me with a twelve-thousand-dollar bill?”
“You needed to understand consequences.”
“Consequences for what?”
Mom sighed dramatically.
“For your choices.”
There it was.
The word they loved.
Choices.
My choice to study art.
My choice not to attend Princeton.
My choice not to become whatever version of a daughter they could brag about at dinner parties.
Dad pointed toward me.
“You’ve spent six years chasing nonsense, and now you’re living under our roof unemployed.”
“The gallery closed.”
“And successful adults adapt.”
“I’m trying.”
“No. You’re waiting for someone to rescue you.”
I almost smiled at the irony.
He had no idea what had happened after he left.
He had no idea whose business card was currently hidden inside my coat pocket.
And suddenly, I remembered Daniel’s warning.
Don’t tell anyone about the meeting yet.
So I didn’t.
Instead, I said quietly, “I’m moving out tonight.”
Mom blinked.
“What?”
“I’m staying with Riley.”
Dad laughed.
“With your unemployed artist friends?”
“Riley is a nurse.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“No. The point is I’m leaving.”
Mom’s expression shifted.
She hadn’t expected that.
This lesson was supposed to end with me becoming more dependent on them.
Not less.
“Amber, don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not.”
“You have nowhere to go.”
“I do tonight.”
“For how long?”
“As long as necessary.”
Dad placed his glass down.
“You walk out that door, don’t expect us to keep supporting you.”
The threat would have terrified me yesterday.
But something had changed.
Maybe it happened when Connor reduced the bill.
Maybe when Daniel said my work mattered.
Or maybe when I finally realized that my parents’ support had always come with a price far more expensive than money.
I nodded.
“Okay.”
Dad stared at me.
He had expected bargaining.
I gave him none.
I walked upstairs.
Packed two suitcases.
My laptop.
Sketchbooks.
Clothes.
Art supplies.
My mother followed me from room to room.
“You’re overreacting.”
I folded another sweater.
“Maybe.”
“What happened tonight was supposed to motivate you.”
I zipped the suitcase.
“It did.”
She looked relieved.
Until I added—
“Just not in the direction you expected.”
Her face hardened.
When I carried my things downstairs, Dad didn’t help.
He stood beside the front door.
“You’ll come back.”
I stopped.
“I don’t think so.”
“Reality will hit you within a week.”
“Maybe.”
“You have no job.”
“I know.”
“No savings.”
“I know.”
“No plan.”
I reached into my pocket.
My fingers touched Daniel Whitmore’s business card.
And for the first time in my life, I realized there was something powerful about knowing more than my father did.
I smiled.
“I’ll figure it out.”
Then I walked outside.
Dad called after me.
“Amber.”
I turned.
His expression was cold.
“When you finally understand the lesson, you can apologize.”
I looked at him for a long moment.
“No, Dad.”
He frowned.
“You can.”
Then I got into my car.
Sunday passed slowly.
I barely slept.
By Monday morning, I had convinced myself approximately fifty times that Daniel Whitmore had only been being polite.
Maybe he had awakened the next morning and forgotten all about me.
Maybe his assistant would have no idea who I was.
Maybe security would escort me out.
At 9:42 a.m., I stood outside Whitmore Development headquarters wearing the only professional outfit I owned.
My portfolio was tucked beneath my arm.
Riley had texted me seven times.
YOU GOT THIS.
DON’T UNDERVALUE YOURSELF.
REMEMBER TO BREATHE.
ASK FOR MORE MONEY THAN YOUR FIRST INSTINCT.
I silenced my phone.
The lobby was enormous.
Marble floors.
Steel columns.
A twenty-foot architectural model of downtown Chicago.
Behind the reception desk, a woman looked up.
“Good morning.”
“I have a meeting with Mr. Whitmore.”
“Name?”
“Amber Mitchell.”
Her fingers stopped over the keyboard.
Then she looked at me differently.
“Oh.”
My stomach dropped.
“Oh good or oh bad?”
She smiled.
“Mr. Whitmore asked us to send you directly upstairs.”
Five minutes later, I was sitting in a conference room on the thirty-second floor.
My drawings were spread across a table.
Daniel sat at one end.
Beside him were three people I had never met.
Elena Ruiz, creative director.
Marcus Lee, senior architect.
And a woman named Simone Carter from brand strategy.
For forty minutes, they asked questions.
Not whether art was practical.
Not whether I had considered law school.
Questions about my work.
Why I chose certain perspectives.
How I used light.
How I would visually interpret a building that hadn’t been constructed yet.
Nobody interrupted me.
Nobody laughed.
Nobody called my work “little drawings.”
Finally, Elena closed the portfolio.
“We want six pieces.”
I stared at her.
“Six?”
“For the Heritage Chicago campaign.”
Daniel slid a folder toward me.
“Four redevelopment properties, one city panorama, and one centerpiece illustration.”
I opened the folder.
Then stopped breathing.
At the bottom of the first page was a number.
$72,000.
I looked up.
“Is this…”
“Your fee,” Daniel said.
I thought it might be the project budget.
Maybe I had misunderstood a decimal point.
“Seventy-two thousand dollars?”
“For phase one.”
My fingers tightened around the paper.
Phase one.
Elena smiled.
“If the campaign moves forward nationally, there would be additional work.”
I stared at the contract.
Two months earlier, my gallery salary had disappeared overnight.
Three nights earlier, my parents had called me a failure.
Now somebody was offering me more money for six pieces of art than I had ever earned in a year.
Daniel seemed to know exactly what I was thinking.
“Take the contract home.”
He pushed a second document toward me.
“Have an attorney review it.”
“I don’t have an attorney.”
“We can give you several independent referrals. Not anyone who works for us.”
I nodded slowly.
Then Daniel added, “There’s something else.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
He glanced toward Marcus.
Marcus turned a laptop toward me.
On the screen was the architectural drawing I had made of the Whitmore Building.
Beside it was a photograph.
They looked almost identical.
“We’re restoring the eastern façade next year,” Marcus said.
“We’ve spent months discussing how to communicate the history of that side of the building.”
He enlarged part of my drawing.
“You noticed details some members of our own team overlooked.”
I didn’t know whether to be proud or terrified.
Daniel folded his hands.
“So I want to offer you a temporary position alongside the commission.”
My eyes widened.
“What position?”
“Visual development consultant.”
I laughed nervously.
“That sounds like something I’m not qualified for.”
Elena smiled.
“People who aren’t qualified rarely produce the work sitting on this table.”
The room became quiet.
For years, my father’s voice had lived inside my head.
Art isn’t a career.
It’s a hobby.
And now four professionals were sitting around a conference table telling me the exact opposite.
I swallowed hard.
“When would I start?”
Daniel smiled.
“Wednesday.”
I left the building at noon carrying paperwork that could change my entire life.
The first person I called was Riley.
She screamed again.
The second person I called was Aunt Jennifer.
She cried.
The two people I didn’t call were my parents.
Monday passed.
Then Tuesday.
I heard nothing from them.
That wasn’t unusual.
Silence was another punishment in our family.
Dad probably believed I would eventually break.
I didn’t.
Wednesday morning, I started working at Whitmore Development.
By Wednesday afternoon, something happened that I didn’t understand.
Daniel called me into his office.
He was standing near the window when I entered.
“Close the door.”
My stomach tightened.
I had been employed for approximately five hours.
That had to be some kind of record.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No.”
He turned from the window.
“Do you know a company called Mitchell Urban Properties?”
My stomach dropped.
“My father’s company.”
Daniel nodded.
Of course he knew.
Whitmore Development was enormous.
My father’s real estate firm was successful, but nowhere near that scale.
“Why?”
Daniel walked toward his desk.
“There’s something you probably don’t know.”
He opened a file.
“Your father’s company has been trying to secure financing for a major development in Evanston.”
I frowned.
Dad had talked about the Evanston project constantly.
A luxury residential complex near the lake.
He called it the deal that would “put Mitchell Urban on the map.”
“What does that have to do with you?”
Daniel met my eyes.
“Whitmore Capital is the lead potential investor.”
I stopped moving.
“What?”
“Your father has been negotiating with one of our subsidiaries for almost six months.”
The room suddenly felt warmer.
I remembered Dad at dinner.
Celebrating a real estate deal.
Scott Thompson.
The expensive wine.
The phone call.
Jenkins.
My mind raced.
“Did my father know who you were?”
“Possibly by name. But we’ve never met personally.”
Daniel paused.
“His negotiations have been handled by my investment team.”
I sat down slowly.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because this morning, someone on that team recognized your surname after your consulting paperwork entered our system.”
I felt sick.
“Daniel, I don’t want my situation affecting my father’s business.”
“It won’t.”
His answer was immediate.
“Your work here will be evaluated independently. His deal will also be evaluated independently.”
Relief washed over me.
Then Daniel’s expression changed.
“But there’s a problem unrelated to you.”
“What problem?”
He hesitated.
“During due diligence, our team found irregularities.”
My heart skipped.
“What kind of irregularities?”
“I can’t discuss details yet.”
“Then why tell me?”
“Because your father is scheduled to come here Friday.”
I stared at him.
“He is?”
“With Scott Thompson and his attorneys.”
Daniel leaned against the desk.
“And there’s a strong possibility he’ll see you.”
My stomach twisted.
Dad thought I was sleeping on Riley’s couch with no job, no money, and no future.
He had no idea I was working inside the very company whose investment he apparently needed.
“I can stay away that day.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I don’t want to create problems.”
“You aren’t creating anything.”
Daniel’s voice became firm.
“Whatever happens Friday is the result of decisions made long before you walked into that restaurant.”
I thought about those words all afternoon.
But the story became stranger before Friday ever arrived.
Thursday morning, at 7:14, my phone rang.
Mom.
I stared at the screen.
She hadn’t called once since I left.
I let it ring.
Thirty seconds later, she called again.
Then Dad.
Then Mom.
Then Dad.
By the time I reached the office, I had eleven missed calls.
At 9:03, there were eighteen.
At 10:20, twenty-four.
Then the messages began.
Amber, call me immediately.
Amber, this is serious.
We need to speak as a family.
Your father needs to ask you something.
Please don’t ignore us.
By lunchtime, I had thirty-five missed calls.
Five messages.
Exactly three days after they had blocked my number and left me alone with a $12,459.87 bill.
I sat at my new desk staring at the screen.
Riley, who had insisted on hearing every development, texted me at that exact moment.
ARE THEY FINALLY PANICKING?
I almost replied.
Then another message appeared.
Dad.
This one was different.
Amber, I know where you are working.
My blood ran cold.
A second message followed.
I need you to tell Daniel Whitmore that whatever you told him about me is a lie.
I stared at the words.
Then a third message arrived.
You have no idea what you’ve done.
My hands began shaking.
I hadn’t told Daniel anything about Dad’s business.
I hadn’t sabotaged anything.
But somehow, my father believed I had.
And then the elevator doors opened across the office.
I looked up.
My father stepped out.
Scott Thompson was beside him.
Dad’s face was pale.
He scanned the floor.
Then his eyes found me.
For one second, neither of us moved.
His expression went from shock…
to disbelief…
to pure fury.
He started walking toward my desk.
But he only made it halfway.
Because Daniel Whitmore stepped out of his office and blocked his path.
My father stopped immediately.
Daniel extended his hand calmly.
“Jason Mitchell.”
Dad stared at him.
“Mr. Whitmore.”
“I believe you’re here for our eleven o’clock meeting.”
Dad glanced past him at me.
“Yes.”
His jaw tightened.
“But before that, I need five minutes with my daughter.”
Daniel didn’t move.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether Amber wants to speak with you.”
Every person within twenty feet had suddenly become extremely interested in their computer screens.
Dad looked at me.
“Amber.”
His voice carried the same command it always had.
“Conference room. Now.”
Three days earlier, I would have stood automatically.
Instead, I remained seated.
“No.”
His face changed.
“Excuse me?”
“I said no.”
“You don’t understand what’s happening.”
“You’re right.”
I slowly stood.
“But I’m beginning to.”
Dad’s eyes dropped to the Whitmore employee badge clipped to my jacket.
Then to the architectural drawings spread across my desk.
And finally to the project folder bearing my name.
AMBER MITCHELL — HERITAGE CHICAGO.
He looked as though someone had struck him.
“You work here?”
I held his gaze.
“Yes.”
His mouth opened.
But Daniel spoke first.
“Jason, I think we should start the meeting.”
Something about Daniel’s tone made my father’s face lose even more color.
Scott looked terrified.
Dad turned toward him.
Then back toward Daniel.
“What exactly is this meeting about?”
Daniel picked up a thick folder from his assistant.
“The Evanston project.”
Dad exhaled.
“Good. Then perhaps we can clear up whatever misunderstanding—”
“There isn’t a misunderstanding.”
The entire floor seemed to become silent.
Daniel opened the folder.
“My due diligence team completed its review yesterday.”
Dad’s expression froze.
“And?”
Daniel looked directly at him.
“What they found means your twelve-thousand-dollar restaurant bill may soon be the smallest financial problem you have.”
My father went completely still.
And for the first time in my entire life, I watched the man who had always made me feel powerless realize that he was the one who had lost control.
But I still didn’t know what Daniel’s investigators had discovered.
I didn’t know why Scott suddenly looked like he wanted to run.
And I definitely didn’t know why, ten minutes later, my mother would arrive downstairs demanding that security let her see me.
All I knew was that three days earlier, my parents had abandoned me at a table to teach their “failure” of a daughter a lesson.
Now my father was standing inside my new workplace, staring at a folder that could destroy the deal he had spent years building.
And when Daniel opened the first page, Scott whispered six words that made everyone in the room turn toward him.
“Jason… they found the second account.”…………..
TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 3…
