You knew about the drone project. I don't know what you're talking about. Cross lied, adjusting his cufflinks, though a bead of sweat appeared on his forehead. It's standard language, Silas. You're being paranoid.
This clause allows you to seize assets that haven't even been patented yet. Silas slammed the contract down. Silas, look at me, Cross said, trying to regain control, his voice rising. We have a deal on the table. $100 million. You need this.
Not at this price, Silas shouted back. You are listening to a waitress, Cross yelled, pointing a finger at Elena. She's nobody. She's nothing. She's probably high.
He turned to Elena, his eyes full of malice. You stupid girl. Do you know how much money you just cost this room? Stay out of this. You pour the coffee.
You do not speak. Do you understand? That was the moment. The hook, the scream that echoed through the restaurant. Every head turned.
The manager, a sweaty man named Mr. Henderson, came running from the back. What is going on here? Elena, what have you done? Mr.
Henderson gasped, looking terrified at the anger on the billionaire's faces. Elena felt small. She felt the weight of her poverty, her uniform, her past. But she looked at Cross and she saw the fear in his eyes. He was afraid of being exposed.
"I didn't do anything, Mr. Henderson," Elena said calmly. She looked at Silas. "I just corrected a math error, a $100 million error." Silas stared at her.
The anger in his face shifted. It wasn't directed at her anymore. He looked at Cross, then down at the contract. He picked up the heavy document, ripped it in half, and threw the pieces onto the floor. "The deal is off, Damon," Silas said, his voice ice cold.
Get out of my sight before I call the SEC and have them look into your Seychelles shell company. Damon Cross looked like he had been slapped. He gathered his briefcase, his face a mask of pure hatred. He leaned in close to Silas. You'll regret this, Sterling.
You'll be bankrupt in a month. Then Cross turned to Elena. And you, I will make sure you never work in this city again. He stormed out. The restaurant remained silent.
Mr. Henderson was trembling. Mr. Sterling, sir, I am so sorry. She is fired immediately.
Elena, get your things. "No," Silas said. He stood up and buttoned his jacket. He walked around the table until he was standing directly in front of Elena. He was tall, towering over her, smelling of expensive cologne and stress.
You're not firing her, Silas told the manager without looking at him. In fact, I need to borrow her. He looked down at Elena. Who are you? I'm just a waitress, sir.
Elena? No, you're not, Silas said, shaking his head. Waitresses don't spot jurisdiction traps in private equity contracts upside down. Who are you really? I used to study law a long time ago.
Silas reached into his pocket and pulled out a black titanium card, his personal business card. He handed it to her. "My car is outside. My shift is over in 10 minutes," he said. "Meet me in the car.
I have a job for you." "I have a job," Elena said, gesturing to the restaurant. "Not anymore," Mr. Henderson snapped. If you walk out that door with him, don't bother coming back, Elena.
You caused a scene. Elena looked at the manager, then at Silas Sterling. She thought about the unpaid bills on her kitchen counter. She thought about her father. She thought about Damon Cross's threat.
She untied her apron and dropped it on the table right next to the spilled water. I'll see you in the car, Mr. Sterling. The rain began to fall just as Elena Vance stepped out of the service entrance of the Azure Lounge. The heavy metal door clanged shut behind her.
It sounded like a prison cell closing. She stood on the wet pavement of 54th Street, shivering in her thin beige uniform, clutching her purse. A sleek black Maybach pulled up to the curb. The rear window rolled down silently. Get in.
Silas Sterling said. Elena hesitated. Her heart was pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She was a waitress who lived in a fourth-floor walk-up in Queens. He was a man who appeared on the cover of Forbes.
Getting into this car was insanity. It was the kind of decision that people in movies made right before they disappeared. But she thought of the eviction notice tucked into her mailbox that morning. She thought of the nursing home calling her twice a day about her mother's rising medical bills. She opened the door and slid onto the cream-colored leather seats.
The car smelled of cedar and rain. It was warm, quiet, and terrifyingly expensive. "Driver, the tower," Silas commanded. The partition between them and the driver slid up, sealing them in a soundproof glass cage. Silas didn't look at her.
He poured himself a glass of amber liquid from a crystal decanter built into the armrest. "Drink?" "No," Elena said, her voice shaking slightly. She cleared her throat and sat up straighter. "No, thank you."
"Suit yourself." He took a sip, grimacing as the alcohol hit his throat. He turned to face her, his eyes assessing her like she was a balance sheet that didn't add up. "Let's cut the pleasantries. You're not a waitress.
"I checked the employee roster on my phone while I was waiting. You've been working at Azure for eight months. Before that, you were scrubbing floors at a gym in Brooklyn. Before that, nothing."
"I like to keep a low profile," Elena said, gripping her purse.
"You have an eidetic memory," Silas stated, not asking. "You spotted a nested jurisdictional clause in a document that was three feet away, upside down in dim lighting. That's not a parlor trick. That's a weapon. Where did you acquire it?"
Elena looked out the window at the blurred city lights passing by. "I was born with the memory. The legal knowledge, I acquired at Columbia Law School." Silas raised an eyebrow. "Columbia?"
"You graduated?"
"Top of my class. Law review. Offered a clerkship with the Supreme Court," Elena said softly.