Leave with what little dignity you still have. Three iPhones at neighboring tables are recording, held low, screens dark. Margaret's is one of them. A young woman at table 19 has hers propped against a bread plate. Whitney does not turn her head.
Mr. Whitmore, do you have any idea what you are doing right now? He laughs, a real laugh, the kind that says you are nothing and we both know it. I know exactly what you are doing. You are begging for attention and you are not getting any from me. That is not a denial, Mr. Whitmore.
That is a confession. Excuse me? Three phones are recording you right now. I counted them when you sat down. Sweetheart, nobody cares what comes out of your mouth in this room.
You should care, Mr. Whitmore. Tomorrow morning, you are going to wish you had cared a great deal. Tomorrow morning, I will not even remember your name. You will. I promise you that.
You will remember it for the rest of your life. All right. That single word, all right. He does not hear what it means. He stands up satisfied, brushes invisible dust off his sleeve, and walks back to his own table.
He thinks he has won. Whitney picks up her clutch, places her napkin neatly on the table, thanks the server who is passing by, and walks out of the ballroom with the same dignity she walked in with. Her heels click steadily across the marble. 400 people watch her go. She does not cry in the elevator.
She does not cry in the lobby. She steps into a black sedan waiting at the curb on Fifth Avenue and pulls the door shut behind her. Where to, ma'am? Home. Take the long way.
I need to think. Yes, ma'am. The driver pulls away from the Pierre and turns south on Fifth. It is now 9:52 p.m. on a Tuesday night. The man who just humiliated her on stage in front of 400 of the most powerful people in America has exactly 14 hours left as the chief executive of his own company.
He does not know that yet. The sedan moves slowly down Fifth Avenue. Rain has started to fall. The kind of fine New York mist that turns every street light into a halo. Whitney sits in the backseat with her laptop open on her knees.
The screen is the only light on her face. The email is already drafted. It has been drafted for 48 hours. To Theodore Davis. Subject: Project Foundry.