"Anger is a stimulant," Beatrice said softly. "It doesn't cure the underlying rot." She looked at Sadie, her pale eyes stripping away the defensive armor the younger woman constantly wore. "Why did you stay, Sadie, after the first week? You have enough money now to walk away, to find a job that doesn't require you to fight men in tailored suits every afternoon."
Sadie looked down at her hands. The calluses from carrying heavy plates were starting to soften, fading away. She hated that; she felt like she was losing proof that she was real.
"Because," Sadie said, her voice rough, "I know what it looks like when people try to push you out the door. I watched landlords do it to my mom. I watched managers do it to me. They smile, they tell you it's for the best, and then they throw your stuff on the curb." She looked up, meeting Beatrice's gaze. "Richard is trying to put you on the curb, and I don't like bullies who wear expensive cologne."
Beatrice didn't smile. She just nodded slowly, a deep, weary acceptance settling over her shoulders.
"Good," the billionaire whispered. "Because I fear he is going to stop asking politely very soon."
The collapse didn't happen in a boardroom. It happened on a Tuesday, exactly four months after the incident on the sidewalk.
Sadie was pouring Beatrice a glass of water from the crystal carafe in the office. Beatrice was standing by the window, looking out at the spring rain.
There was no dramatic gasp, no flailing. Beatrice simply folded.
One second she was standing; the next, gravity seized her. Sadie moved before her brain processed the visual. The water glass shattered on the concrete floor. She dove, catching Beatrice under the arms just before her head could strike the pane of reinforced glass.
The old woman felt incredibly light, hollowed out.
"Beatrice!" Sadie barked, sliding them both to the floor, ignoring the shards of crystal biting into her knee. "Beatrice, look at me!"
Beatrice's eyes were open, but they were unspooling, rolling wildly. The left side of her face was slack, the corner of her mouth drooping heavily. She tried to speak, but the sound that came out was a wet, unintelligible slur.
A stroke.