Beatrice finally turned her gaze to Sadie. The blazing anger in her eyes softened, replaced by a profound, weary embarrassment.
"Sadie," Beatrice said quietly. "I apologize. My son inherited his father's money, but unfortunately none of his grace."
Sadie stood frozen, her heart hammering against her ribs. The dynamic in the room had shifted violently; the sterile, oppressive air of the penthouse suddenly felt charged with electricity.
"It's fine," Sadie managed to say, though her voice shook.
"It is not fine," Beatrice insisted. She stepped closer to Sadie—close enough that Sadie could smell the faint scent of mint lozenges over the sterile air of the office. Beatrice looked at the grease stains on Sadie's sneakers, then at her defensive, rigid posture. "I see you didn't take his money," Beatrice noted, a hint of a smile touching the corner of her mouth.
"I didn't earn it," Sadie said, her jaw tight. "I just gave you a napkin."
"You gave me your dignity," Beatrice corrected softly. She turned her head, fixing her son with a glare that could strip paint off a wall. "Richard, get out."
Richard blinked, stunned. "Mother, be reasonable. This woman—"
"This woman has more spine in her little finger than you have in your entire executive board!" Beatrice cut him off. "Leave us. Now."
Richard hesitated, his jaw clenching tight. He looked at Sadie with pure, unfiltered venom, then turned on his heel and marched toward the frosted glass doors. They hissed shut behind him, leaving a heavy silence in his wake.
Beatrice let out a long, shuddering breath. Her shoulders slumped slightly, the fiery energy draining out of her, leaving her looking impossibly old and tired. She swayed slightly on her feet.
Instinct overrode Sadie's discomfort. She stepped forward, hovering a hand near Beatrice's elbow without actually touching the expensive fabric of her suit.
"Do you want to sit down?" Sadie asked softly.