"Very well," Caldwell said quietly. He slipped the envelope back into his jacket. "If you prefer a direct dialogue, Mr. Hayes has instructed me to bring you to him, should you prove difficult."
"I'm on shift," Sadie said, crossing her arms.
"Not anymore, you aren't!" Frank practically shouted, desperate to appease the dangerous man in his diner. "Take an early lunch, Sadie. Take the rest of the day. Get out of here!"
Sadie turned to her manager, feeling a bitter sting of betrayal. Frank would sell her out for a $5 tip—why did she expect anything different?
She looked back at Caldwell. The man gestured toward the door, a polite motion that held the implicit weight of a threat. "My car is waiting, Ms. Miller."
Sadie looked at her hands: the knuckles were still red and raw from scrubbing the apron. She was tired. She was so unbelievably tired of being pushed around by landlords, by managers, by customers who thought a $2 tip bought them the right to grab her waist.
Fine, she thought, a cold, cynical armor locking into place over her chest. Let's go see how the other half lives.
She untied her apron, threw it over the counter, and walked out the door without looking back.
The inside of the sedan smelled like brand-new leather and filtered air. It was entirely silent; the glass was so thick it completely muted the roar of the city outside. Sadie felt like she was in a sensory deprivation tank. She sat stiffly in the back seat, hyper-aware of the grease on her sneakers and the faint smell of fried onions clinging to her hair. She felt like a contaminant.
They drove for twenty minutes, leaving the cracked pavement and pawn shops behind, entering a world of glass, steel, and manicured trees. The car pulled into an underground parking garage that was cleaner than Sadie's kitchen. Caldwell escorted her to a private elevator: there were no buttons, just a biometric scanner that read his thumbprint. The doors slid shut with a pneumatic hiss. The ascent was so fast and smooth, Sadie only knew they were moving because her ears violently popped.
The doors opened. Sadie stepped out, bracing herself for gold chandeliers and gaudy excess.
She was wrong. The penthouse office of Hayes Global was a monument to minimalist intimidation. The floors were poured concrete polished to a mirror shine. The walls were floor-to-ceiling glass, offering a dizzying, god-like view of the city skyline. The furniture was all sharp angles and dark, expensive woods. It didn't look rich; it looked powerful. It was the kind of room where thousands of jobs were eliminated with a stroke of a pen.
"Wait here," Caldwell murmured, gesturing to a low, uncomfortable-looking leather sofa. He walked through a set of frosted glass doors.
Sadie remained standing. She refused to sit on their furniture. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly very aware of how thin her faded cotton t-shirt was; the air conditioning in here was aggressive.