The cold, damp air hit her face. A sleek black town car, a Lincoln Continental, was idling at the curb, its engine a low purr. One of the bodyguards opened the door for her. As she slid on to the plush leather seat, a seat more luxurious than any piece of furniture she owned, she looked back at the morning glory diner.
It looked small and sat under the gray sky. She had a terrifying, electrifying feeling that she would never see it the same way again. The ritual was over. Something new and infinitely more complicated was just beginning. The ride to the law office was a silent, surreal journey through the city. Bella stared out the tinted windows at the familiar streets which now looked alien and distant.
The car was an oasis of quiet luxury, smelling of leather and polish. Mr. Davies sat opposite her reviewing documents from his briefcase, his face an unreadable mask of professionalism. Bella’s mind was a whirlwind of confusion and a dull, aching sadness for the old man she never truly knew. The offices of Sterling Cromwell and Davies were located in the penthouse of a gleaming skyscraper in the heart of the financial district.
It was a world away from the morning glory diner. Marble floors, towering glass walls with panoramic city views, and hushed art-filled corridors greeted them. Bella, in her faded jeans and worn out sneakers, felt like a stray cat that had wandered into a palace. She was led into a vast boardroom dominated by a long, polished mahogany table.
At one end sat two people who looked as out of place as Bella felt, though for different reasons. They radiated an aura of impatient resentful privilege. The man was in his late 20s with slicked back hair, a designer suit that looked a little too tight, and a petulant scowl. The woman beside him, presumably his mother, was impeccably dressed, her face, a carefully constructed mask of polite disdain, her fingers drumming impatiently on the table. Mr.
