She had agreed reluctantly. Camille had spent two years building her career under her mother's maiden name, Davis. No one at Fletcher Global knew she was the CEO's daughter. She had earned her analyst position through three rounds of interviews, a case study presentation, and a 90-day performance review that scored higher than anyone in her cohort. That was the point: she didn't want to be Raymond Fletcher's daughter. She wanted to be Camille Davis, the one who earned it. But tonight, her father asked, so she went.
The grand atrium of the Fletcher Global Tower glittered under a thousand lights. Crystal chandeliers hung from forty-foot ceilings. White linen tables stretched across the marble floor. Three hundred guests—executives, investors, politicians, old money—mingled with champagne flutes and forced smiles.
Camille arrived alone. Raymond had texted twenty minutes earlier: Emergency board call running two hours late. Gerald will take care of you. Save me a seat.
Gerald Townsend, Fletcher Global's director of partnership relations, met her at the entrance. He was one of three people in the company who knew her real identity.
"Your father's table is front and center," he said quietly. "The Harringtons are seated there, too. They're trying to close a $550 million acquisition deal with us."
The Harringtons: an old-money real estate empire. Victoria Harrington runs the family. Her son Preston and his wife Sloan handle the public side.
Gerald paused. "They're particular."
Camille smoothed her dress. "I'll be fine."
Gerald watched her walk toward the table. He pulled out his phone and typed a message to Raymond: She's here. Harringtons already seated. Keep your phone close.
He had no idea how right he was to worry.
Camille saw the table before the table saw her—front and center, just like Gerald said. A round ten-seater draped in white linen, crystal glasses catching the chandelier light. Six seats were already taken. A small gold placard read: Reserved – CEO Table.
She pulled out the chair next to the empty one marked R. Fletcher.
Preston Harrington looked up from his bourbon, his eyes locked on her, then moved to the chair, then back to her.
"Excuse me," he said. "This table is reserved."