I did not slouch.
I did not look at the ground.
I walked through the revolving glass doors of the lobby, my scuffed leather dress shoes making a clean, concussive tack… tack… tack against the green Italian marble floorboards.
The receptionist—a twenty-two-year-old girl named Jenny who had started three weeks ago—looked up from her console.
When she saw me walking toward the security turnstiles, her face drained of all color:
“Mr…. Mr. Miller…?” Jenny stammered, her hands hovering over her telephone extension:
“Nick… Mr. Sterling gave explicit instructions to the building security… He said you were not permitted past the reception desk!”
“I’m here for my personal effects, Jenny,” I said softly.
My voice had no anger. It carried that quiet, terrifying, sixty-cycle baseline that had governed three years of commercial campaigns:
“My family photographs on desk fourteen.”
“My grandfather’s brass drafting compass.”
“And the leather-bound client ledger that belongs to my personal consulting charter.”
