Monday morning, I arrived at the Prescott tower at eight forty-five in my blue dress, carrying a small bucket and a pair of yellow rubber gloves. I smiled and rode the elevator to the fortieth floor, where twelve directors sat around a polished table. Gerald stood at the head, mid-sentence, presenting quarterly numbers. He glanced at my bucket and chuckled. “Cleaning staff use the service entrance,” he said. Diane met my eyes and gave one small nod.

I placed the bucket on the table, sat in the empty chair at the far end, and said, “Please continue, Gerald. I would love to hear how you built this place yourself.” His smile slipped. Then Diane opened a folder, and the first page carried a name that made his hands shake: his own. Across the glass wall, security stepped quietly into the hallway.