Thomas nodded proudly, puffing out his chest. He reached into his tailored breast pocket, his fingers tapping affectionately against a folded legal folder. It was the eviction notice. He planned to slap it onto my mattress the second they returned to the house.
“It’s all about surrounding yourself with excellence,” Thomas boasted to the surgeon, his eyes darting around the room hungrily. “Actually, I own a logistics firm that specializes in—”
Backstage, the warning chimes echoed through the PA system, signaling the five-minute mark. The lights in the grand hall began to slowly dim, bathing the audience in a hushed, expectant twilight.
Dean Bradley walked up beside me, holding a heavy, leather-bound binder containing the run-of-show and my keynote address. He leaned in, his expression turning intensely serious.
“Clara, I must warn you before you step out there,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only I could hear. “We have some incredibly powerful global investors sitting in the front rows today. Word of your grant has leaked. Specifically, Marcus Sterling, the CEO of the Sterling Pharmaceutical Conglomerate, is in the audience. I believe your father’s logistics company has been desperately begging his office for a distribution contract for the last two years.”
