Page 34 of Ruin
I answer every one. Not perfectly. Not always with the answer they want, but with enough confidence and enough substance that by the time the second round of whiskey is poured, the energy in the room has shifted from "who the hell is she" to something closer to "where has she been."
Vincent catches my eye across the table at one point. He doesn't smile, but he gives me the smallest nod.
From Vincent, that's a standing ovation.
The meeting ends at midnight.
People filter out in twos and threes, some nodding to me as they pass, some ignoring me, some studying me with the careful attention of people recalibrating their internal maps.
Natalia stops at my chair. "We should get drinks. Now. I have thoughts about the gallery rotation you'll want to hear."
"Lead the way."
"Upstairs. I could use a drink after three hours of watching men pretend they're not terrified of a woman in heels."
We take the elevator up to Purgatory.
The club is still going—bass and bodies and the usual chaos—but Natalia leads me to a corner of the bar that feels separate from the noise.
Private without being hidden.
She orders whiskey neat. I order wine, because I haven't learned yet that wine is the drink of the woman I used to be.
"So," she says, swirling her glass. "Natalia Cruz. I run the gallery operations. Which you already know because you restructured my appraiser rotation without asking."
"It needed restructuring."
"It did. I'd been telling Vincent that for six months and he kept saying he'd get to it." She takes a sip. Watches me over the rim. "You got to it in a week."
"I'm efficient."
"Yes, undoubtedly so," She sets the glass down. "Those men in that room—half of them are trying to figure out if you're Cassius' pet project or an actual threat to their positions. The other half already know the answer and they're not happy about it."
"And which half are you?"
"Neither. I'm the woman who's been the only female voice at that table for three years, and I'm trying to figure out if you're going to make my life easier or harder."
The honesty of it catches me off guard. No posturing, no games. Just a woman laying out the math.
"Easier," I say. "I'm not here to take your seat. I'm here to add one."
She studies me. The measuring look from earlier is still there, but there's something else behind it now.
Not warmth, not yet. Consideration. The look of someone deciding whether to invest.
"The gallery rotation," she says, shifting gears. "Your three-firm model is good, but you're missing something. Clement has a side deal with one of the appraisers. Off the books. If you rotate him out, he'll panic, and panicked men do stupid things."
"How do you know about the side deal?"
"Because I've been watching Clement for two years, waiting for someone smart enough to help me do something about it." She finishes her whiskey. "I think you might be that someone."
It's not a compliment. It's an offer. An alliance, small and specific.
"Tell me about Clement," I say.
She orders another whiskey. I switch to one too. And for the next forty minutes, Natalia Cruz teaches me more about the internal politics of Cassius' organization than a year of briefing files ever could.
Near the end of the second whiskey, her eyes drop to my throat. To the collar. She stares at it for a long moment, longer than she has before, and something in her face shifts. Not the measuring look. Something older. Farther away.
