Month Nine

The Hartwell Group building is a forty-story argument.

Glass, steel, Midtown. The lobby is marble that was not chosen for comfort. The revolving door turns quieter than it should at this price point. A security guard clocks my badge before I have it out. Good. I like a system that works.

I check my phone. 8:47 AM. Thirteen minutes early. I am never late. Especially not here.

Nadine Cole, 8:46: Fortress. Dragon. Don't let him smell fear.

I don't do fear. I do EBITDA.

You're such a nerd. Call me when he fires you.

I put the phone away. I have not met the CEO. I have met his numbers. Three quarters of bleed in logistics. Chicago running at sixty percent capacity. Detroit barely clearing break-even if you ignore overtime. Cleveland: four consecutive quarters of loss, held up by accounting that would fail a first-year MBA exam. That is the job. Six weeks. Then I leave.

The receptionist does not look at her screen.

"Ms. Reyes. Mr. Hartwell would like to see you in his office in ten minutes."

Not a request.

"Which floor?"

"Fortieth. The private elevator is to your right. He's expecting you."

The elevator is glass. It rises through trading floors and conference rooms full of people who look like they last slept in 2012. Someone on thirty-six is presenting a slide that says synergy in forty-point type. I look away before it contaminates me.

The fortieth floor is a statement. Windows on every wall. No photos. No plants. No art. Decoration is a variable someone already cut. The carpet is the expensive kind that swallows sound. I can hear my own pulse, which I resent.

The reception desk is empty except for a file with my name on it. One-page briefing. NDA I already signed. Handwritten note on Hartwell Group letterhead.

My office. Now.

Corner office. Door open. I knock on the frame anyway.

He is at the window. Broad shoulders, dark suit, posture that never learned to slouch. He turns.

I expected older. Softer. A man who inherited an empire and sat down in it.

Grant Hartwell is thirty-four and has not sat down comfortably in his life.

Six-two, maybe six-three. Dark hair, recent cut. Eyes the color of cold coffee. He looks at me like I am a model with an error in it.

"Maya Reyes," he says. Not a question.

"Mr. Hartwell."

"Grant." He points at the chair. "Sit."

I sit. He does not. One hand on the back of his chair. Height. Space. Control. So obvious I almost smile.

Almost.

"You've read the briefing."

"The one-pager. The full financials came last week."

"And?"

"Your logistics division is hemorrhaging. Operating margins down eighteen percent year over year. Three underperforming warehouses in the Midwest. A distribution network that has not been optimized since before the pandemic. And a management team that has been reporting inflated efficiency numbers to the board for at least two quarters."

No surprise. No defense. Just those eyes.

"Be specific."

"Chicago is the least ugly. Infrastructure holds. They're at sixty percent capacity because management stopped selling inbound volume three years ago and no one updated the labor model. Detroit is break-even on paper. Off paper, you're buying that break-even with overtime and a second-shift that should have been cut or staffed properly, not both. Cleveland is the problem you called me for. Four quarters of loss. Efficiency metrics inflated about fifteen percent. Not enough to trip an audit. Enough to hide the slope."

He does not blink. "What's your timeline?"

"Six weeks. Full access to financials, operational data, personnel files. I interview the division heads. You clear board pushback before it reaches me. I want the raw operational database, not the summaries Marcus Webb has been feeding the board."

That gets a reaction. Small. Jaw.

"You'll have it."

"Just like that?"

He tilts his head. "I hired you because your firm's last report was the only one that made sense. The other three told me what I wanted to hear. You told me the truth. I don't need you to ask permission to do your job, Ms. Reyes. I need you to do it."

No padding. Fine.

"Why me? You could have hired McKinsey."

"I don't need McKinsey. I need someone who isn't afraid to tell me I'm wrong." A pause. "Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Afraid to tell me I'm wrong."

"I've been telling men like you that you're wrong my entire career. It's not my first time."

Something moves in his face. Not a smile. The ghost of one. There and gone.

"Good. Then we understand each other."

He sits. Eye level. The standing was a test. I did not flinch. I will not.

"Webb is going to come at you," he says. "He has been using Cleveland as a reason to call for a leadership change since my father died. If your numbers make him look like he sat on a rotting warehouse, he will try to discredit the work. And you."

"I've been discredited by better men. I brought the source docs."

Almost the ghost again. "Your office is down the hall. Third door on the left. Derek will show you around."

"Derek?"

"My CFO. Derek Hawthorne." He taps his phone. The door opens.

Derek Hawthorne is warm where Grant is cold. Easy smile. I do not trust easy smiles. He has the look of a man who has been cleaning up after the same person for a decade and has decided to enjoy it.

"Maya, this is Derek. Derek, Maya's set up. Get her what she needs. Operational database, personnel, the Cleveland files Webb doesn't want circulating."

Derek shakes my hand. "Welcome to the fortieth floor of hell. I handle the money, Grant handles the brooding, and together we pretend we know what we're doing."

"Charming."

"I've been told." He glances at Grant. "She's already got your number. I like her."

Grant is already on his screen.

Derek leans in. "Don't take it personally. He's like this with everyone. I've known him for twelve years and I'm still not sure he likes me."

"I like you fine," Grant says, without looking up.

"He says that about everyone." Derek points down the hall. "Coffee machine. Most important thing on this floor."

We walk. Behind me, Grant is at the window again. Not looking at the city.

I do not turn around.

Third door on the left. Desk, chair, whiteboard, same view. A monitor already logged into a guest profile. No flowers. No welcome packet. I respect that.

"La Marzina at the end of the hall," Derek says. "Grant installed it last year. Cost more than my first car. He's never used it once."

"Noted."

"Also — the board is restless. Webb especially. Marcus Webb. He's been on Grant about the logistics numbers for months. If you find something that makes Webb look bad, he will make your life difficult. He already asked me this morning what we were paying your firm. I told him less than the audit he wants."

"I appreciate it."

"And one more thing." The smile drops a fraction. "Grant doesn't do small talk. He doesn't do personal. If he seems cold, it's not you. It's him. It's always him."

"I'll keep that in mind."

He leaves. I open the financials.

Worse than the one-pager. Someone has been seasoning the books. Cleveland's "temporarily challenged" language is Webb's. I can smell it in the verbs. Detroit's staffing file is a mess — open reqs that have been open for eleven months, a supervisor doing two jobs, overtime that is being coded as seasonal when the season ended in March.

Three spreadsheets in, I notice the glass.

From my desk I can see into his office. From his desk he can see into mine.

He is working. Head down. He does not look up.

Five minutes later I feel it. I glance up.

He is looking at me through the glass.

Three seconds. Four. Five.

He looks back at his screen. I look back at mine.

I open a new spreadsheet. Tabs: Chicago. Detroit staffing. Cleveland break-even. Webb.

I write the six-week clock at the top in a cell I will not hide. Day one. Forty-two to go. I request personnel files for Cleveland management and Detroit's second shift before lunch, because if I wait for someone to offer them I will get summaries.

Nadine: Still alive?

He has a glass wall and a coffee machine he doesn't use. The books are seasoned. I'll call you tonight.

Eat something that isn't a number.

I put the phone away.

Six weeks. Numbers. A deliverable. Then I leave.

I have done this a hundred times.

I just need to stop looking up.