“Joanna, sit,” my mother intoned. “We need to discuss the budget.”
“How did you already know?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
Megan shrugged, her eyes never leaving her screen. “Tyler’s girlfriend works reception at Ashford. She messaged me this morning. We’ve been talking about it for hours.”
They had known before I even cleared my desk. They had sat in this living room, eaten lemon squares, and mourned my paycheck while I was still signing my termination papers. They hadn’t called me. They hadn’t texted. They had simply waited for the “ATM” to come home and explain why the cash flow had stopped.
Cliffhanger: I looked at the three women on the couch and realized they weren’t waiting for an explanation; they were waiting for a concession.
Chapter 3: The Architecture of an ATM
To understand that living room, you have to understand the architecture of the last fifteen years. I graduated from the University of Georgia at twenty-two and stepped immediately into the high-pressure world of Ashford & Graves. My grandmother, Ruth Sinclair, was the only one who seemed to see the danger.
