The color drops out of his cheeks. His jaw slackens. His left hand, the one not holding the pen, twitches at his side. Then, because he has spent his entire adult life pretending things he cannot afford to feel, he covers it. The smile slides back into place, wider this time, brittle.
Ms. Moore, what a pleasant surprise. Mr. Whitmore, I had no idea you would be representing the fund today. I am not representing the fund, Mr. Whitmore. I am the fund. A pause.
Bloomberg's camera operator zooms in. Of course. Of course you are. You sent me a text message last night, Mr. Whitmore. Do you remember sending it?
His smile cracks at the corners. I do not know what you are talking about. You should. It was 9 minutes after I left the Pierre. You threatened to ruin me and everyone I have worked with before lunch today.
The screenshot has been preserved. The metadata is intact. A ripple goes through the press section. Pens move. Phones lift.
Shall we sit, Ms. Moore? Yes, Mr. Whitmore. Let us sit. The signing begins. Two copies of the contract, one for each side.
Harrison signs first. The pen scratches across the page. He signs the second copy. He passes the folder to Whitney. She signs hers.
She signs his. The witnesses initial each page. It is now 11:08. Bloomberg cuts to a chyron. $1.5 billion Whitmore Industries growth capital deal signed.
The official handshake comes next, the photo opportunity. Mr. Whitmore, Ms. Moore, if you would please stand for the photograph. Harrison stands. He has not removed his gloves. Whitney stands.
She extends her hand across the table. Cameras click, flashes pop. Harrison takes her hand. He shakes once, firm, professional. The flash goes off three times, then he lets go.
And he reaches for his left glove with his right hand. Harrison's right hand grips the index finger of the left glove. He pulls. The white silk slides off slowly, deliberately, in front of 300 cameras. He places it on the table beside the contract.
Then the right glove, same motion, same deliberate slowness. The flashes are still popping. He turns to Edward Brooks. His voice is loud, theatrical, designed to carry. Edward, the wastebasket.
Edward freezes. Sir? The wastebasket. Edward's face goes the color of paper. He slides the chrome bin out from beneath the side table and pushes it closer to Harrison with his foot.