He waited. Charles did not feel the need to fill silences the way ordinary men did; he used silence as if it were a resource that belonged to him.
Finally, he spoke again. "I would like to meet tomorrow afternoon. Not at the hotel, and entirely out of the public eye. You may bring anyone you trust to the table."
Lena's eyes narrowed, though he could not see the expression. "Why?"
"To discuss concrete terms of structural support—schooling, proper dance instruction, and housing stability if needed. And because it is entirely clear that you will not tolerate vague promises."
"No," she said flatly. "I won't."
"Good."
She almost hated that she respected the directness of the answer. "Where?" she asked.
"My private office is attached to the Whitmore Foundation building downtown," he said. "But if that environment feels too formal or biased, we can meet in the community art studio we sponsor on Madison Street. It is public enough to reassure you, but private enough to talk without disruption."
The fact that he offered the second option without her needing to force it surprised her. "The studio," she selected. "At 4:00 p.m."
Lena looked toward Annie, who was now spinning a single blue crayon between her fingers as if it were a baton. "I'm bringing my daughter."
"I assumed you would. And Ms. Bell—this is not a binding agreement."
"I know it isn't," she hesitated, then asked the question that had needled her all day. "Mr. Whitmore, why Annie?"
There was no immediate answer on the line. When it came, it was noticeably quieter. "Because some people enter a room asking only what it can give them," he said. "Your daughter entered one simply listening for the music." He paused. "And because gifts like hers are far too often left to die in environments where the wealthy never have to watch the failure."