"I know. I'm seated here."
Preston exchanged a glance with Sloan. Sloan lowered her champagne flute and stared at Camille like she was examining something stuck to the bottom of her shoe.
"You're seated here," Preston repeated. "At the CEO's table?"
"That's right."
"And you are?"
"Camille Davis. Senior Analyst, Strategic Development."
Preston leaned back in his chair. A slow grin spread across his face. He turned to Victoria, who was watching the exchange with her reading glasses perched on her nose.
"Mother, did you hear that? A senior analyst at the CEO's table." He turned back to Camille. "Diversity quota must be working overtime tonight."
Camille set her clutch on the table. "I was assigned this seat."
"By who? The janitor?"
Sloan laughed. Victoria didn't. Victoria studied Camille the way a person studies an insect that has landed on their dinner plate: with cold, quiet disgust.
"Sit down," Victoria said finally, her voice flat. "You're blocking my view of the stage."
Camille sat. She unfolded her napkin. She placed it on her lap. Every movement deliberate, every movement watched. She could feel six pairs of eyes on her skin. The two board members across the table, Walter Reeves and Thomas Caldwell, glanced at each other, but said nothing. Their wives studied their plates as if the salad had suddenly become fascinating.
The first fifteen minutes were silence—not the comfortable kind, the kind that presses against your chest and dares you to breathe too loud. Camille sipped her water. She didn't reach for the wine. She didn't reach for the bread basket. Even though her stomach was empty, she kept her hands still and her eyes forward. She had spent her whole life learning how to sit in rooms where people didn't want her. This was just another one.