Chapter Ten
Elsa
The conference room is exactly what it’s supposed to be: neutral, quiet, forgettable.
Beige walls. A long table with too many chairs. A pitcher of water sweating onto a neat stack of coasters. The kind of carpet that blends into the environment instead of standing out.
Perfect.
I walk in with my tablet tucked under my arm and my phone silenced in my hand, freshly showered and back in my business armor.
My suit is charcoal, tailored, conservative enough that no one can accuse me of trying to distract anyone.
The blouse underneath is high-necked and clean.
My hair is smoothed back, makeup minimal, a return to the version of myself that is easiest for others to respect.
The version of myself that doesn’t wake up with sore thighs and a man’s hand on her breast.
I take the chair I want—near the middle, where I can see everyone without being trapped at the head—and set my tablet down. I align it with the edge of the table. I place my pen beside it, parallel. Small order, small control.
I’m early.
I’m always early.
I breathe in slowly, let my shoulders settle, and force my mind onto the agenda instead of… elsewhere.
Before my mind can drift off into elsewhere, thankfully, the door opens.
David Holbrook walks in with the same punctual efficiency he always carries. Suit crisp. Expression neutral. He gives me a nod that’s almost friendly.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning,” I reply.
He takes a seat two chairs away, sets down a leather portfolio, and flips it open immediately as if he’s been waiting all night to see numbers.
We sit in silence for a minute that isn’t awkward, because David doesn’t do awkward. He does straightforward.
The door opens again.
Eleanor Pierce arrives like she’s late even when she isn’t. She’s impeccably put together—hair perfect, jewelry understated, eyes sharp. She glances at me, then the room, then chooses a seat herself.
“Elsa,” she says.
“Eleanor,” I return.
She sets a slim folder on the table, the movement precise. No wasted motion. No wasted words.
Then the door opens a third time, and Malcolm Crane steps in, phone in hand, jacket buttoned, expression smooth. CEO on autopilot. He looks up, takes in who’s here, and his face relaxes a fraction.
“Good,” he says. “We’re ready to start.
David’s mouth twitches, almost a smile. Eleanor doesn’t react. I don’t either.
He always says that. Because he always arrives last.
Malcolm takes the seat at the head of the table, sets his phone down, and looks at each of us in turn.
“Thank you for making the time this morning,” he says, and it’s the tone he uses when he doesn’t want the meeting to feel mandatory, even when we all know it is. “I know it’s not ideal.”
“It’s efficient,” I say, because that’s the only compliment I’m willing to give.
Malcolm nods as if he expected that exact answer. “I’m glad you could make it,” he says, then adds, “And I’m sorry you couldn’t make it to the gala last night.”
My stomach tightens, a reflexive pinch of memory—warm light, loud laughter, a man’s mouth—
I keep my face neutral.
“It didn’t work out,” I say evenly.
I decided long before I walked into this room not to let them know that I did manage to make it to the gala late, and that they weren’t there.
It would only open the floor up to more questions. And I wasn’t willing to give up any answers.
Malcolm gives a sympathetic tilt of his head. “It happens. Next time.”
“And we appreciate you being flexible,” Malcolm adds, then folds his hands. “All right. Let’s start with the Chicago meeting.”
Chicago. The reason I came in late last night. Everyone else drove into Atlantic City from New York, but I was in Chicago, in another meeting with another company looking to acquire Northstar.
David’s pen is already in his hand. “Yes. Let’s.”
Eleanor leans back slightly, posture relaxed but watchful. “I’m curious what your read was.”
Malcolm’s gaze stays on me, direct. “Walk us through it.”
I tap my tablet awake, not because I need it, but because I like having something to anchor my hands.
“Bellandi Operations,” I say.
“Yes, what did you think of them?” David asks.
I keep my tone factual. “They were prepared. They had done their research. They asked the right questions about governance, compliance, client retention, and operational risk.”
David makes a small sound of approval. Malcolm’s gaze narrows slightly, as if he’s bracing for the part he won’t like.
“And?” Malcolm prompts again, because he knows I don’t give conclusions away for free.
“And,” I continue, “they are not sentimental. They are not looking at Northstar as a ‘partner’ or a ‘legacy brand.’ They are looking at it as a mechanism.”
David’s pen pauses. “A mechanism for what?”
I meet his eyes. “Expansion.”
Eleanor’s fingers tap once on her folder. “Into where?”
“The Northeast,” I say. “They were explicit. Their current footprint is strong in Chicago and the surrounding market. They see an opportunity to move into the Northeast corridor and position themselves as a broader, national player. Northstar gives them the infrastructure and the credibility to do that faster.”
Malcolm leans forward a fraction. “So it’s not about hospitality management for them. It’s about access.”
“Yes,” I say. “They want the compliance narrative. They want the client list. They want the operational protocols. They want the ability to walk into Northeast rooms and not be treated like outsiders.”
David’s eyes narrow. “Why Northstar specifically? There are other firms.”
“They gave me an explanation about the client list, and what they were looking for in it,” I say.
“But you didn’t buy it.” Eleanor’s gaze stays pinned on me.
“No, it was a practiced response,” I answer. “The real reason is that it’s a shortcut. They’re looking for the quickest way to gain the most reputation and a foothold in our sector.”
“How did they present themselves?” David asks.
I choose my words carefully. “Polished. They tried the charm angle, but they were careful to frame everything in terms of business opportunity and growth. They emphasized ‘alignment’ and ‘resources.’ They spoke a lot about scaling.”
Malcolm watches my face. “And what did you think?”
I pause, not for drama—because I’m deciding how blunt I want to be.
“They are competent,” I say finally. “They will be persistent. And they have appetite.”
Eleanor’s eyes sharpen further. “Did anything feel off?”
I hold her gaze. “They were very interested in how due diligence would be structured. Specifically, who would be signing off internally and what the timeline would be.”
David looks up sharply. Malcolm’s face tightens.
“They asked about you without knowing it was about you,” Malcolm says with a small tilt of his lips.
“Yes,” I answer.
Eleanor’s mouth curves slightly. “They’re smart.”
“They are,” I agree. “They understand how it works.”
David’s pen taps once. “And did you give them anything?”
“I told them what I would tell anyone,” I continue. “That the process is the process. That no one skips it. That we don’t do special timelines because someone wants to make an announcement before the quarter ends.”
David’s mouth twitches, approving. Eleanor’s eyes stay on me, assessing.
Malcolm folds his hands again. “Any sense of funding structure.”
I glance at my tablet, scroll once. “They implied they have backing that can move quickly. They did not offer specifics in the room, and I didn’t ask for any. That’s not the purpose of an initial meeting.”
David nods. “But.”
“But,” I agree, “the confidence wasn’t performative. They weren’t bluffing. They expect to be taken seriously.”
“And in terms of fit,” Malcolm asks.
I don’t hesitate. “I have concerns.”
The room goes still. That’s the thing about me. When I say that, it means something.
Eleanor’s eyes narrow. “Concerns about what?”
I hold my posture steady. “About what happens when a company that prizes discretion and compliance becomes a vehicle for expansion. When growth becomes the primary objective, corners get… discussed.”
David’s mouth tightens. Malcolm’s expression is controlled.
“And,” I add, because it matters, “they were very interested in influence. Not just acquisition. Influence.”
Eleanor’s gaze sharpens. “Influence over what?”
“Over operations,” I say. “Over access. Over how decisions get made.”
David’s pen stops again. “That’s not surprising.”
“No,” I agree. “But it’s informative.”
Malcolm’s voice is calm when he speaks. “All right. We’ve got enough to work with.”
He looks to David. “Draft a summary of competitive posture.”
David nods, already doing it.
Malcolm looks to Eleanor. “We’ll need to be strategic.”
Eleanor’s mouth curves slightly. “We always are.”
Then Malcolm’s gaze returns to me. “Elsa—thank you. And I’m sorry again about the gala.”
I keep my expression composed, even as last night flashes bright and warm behind my eyes.
“It’s fine,” I say. “How was it?”
Malcolm’s mouth pulls into a brief, satisfied smile. “Productive,” he says. “Lavish, as expected. They know how to put on a show.”
David glances up from his notes. “The property is… impressive.”
Eleanor’s gaze stays on Malcolm. “Very,” she agrees. “It’s designed to make you feel like you’re already saying yes.”
I give a small, noncommittal nod, not letting on that I’ve already experienced that for myself. As well as the inside of one of their suites and room service.
Malcolm folds his hands. “Roberto Conti and Caterina Conti. They’re the ones running the casino side of it. Roberto handled the introductions and the high-level talk, Caterina handled the operational specifics.”
David’s tone is crisp. “Caterina was sharp. Numbers-forward. Knows their compliance posture better than most people who claim they do.”
“That’s a positive,” I say.
Malcolm continues, “And Roberto’s wife, Olivia, she’s their marketing coordinator. She gave us a tour. It was curated but very well done.”