“My name is Catherine Hayes,” I said, turning slightly so my voice would carry beyond the immediate circle. “I am the majority owner and chairwoman of Apex Medical Group. My father built this institution. I have spent my adult life protecting it. Whatever this man has allowed himself to become, whatever he has taken, whatever he imagined he was entitled to, he does not own this place. He has only been standing in front of it.”
I looked at Arthur.
“Mark Thompson’s employment as chief executive officer is terminated effective immediately,” Arthur said. “His system access has been revoked. Security is authorized to escort him from all Apex premises. He is barred from re-entry pending civil and criminal review.”
Two security officers were already moving. Good ones. Senior. Men who understood that discretion and force sometimes need to travel together.
Mark lurched to his feet only because they hauled him there.
“You can’t do this,” he shouted, looking not at me now but at the crowd. “You have no idea what she’s like. She’s vindictive. She’s controlling. She’s always wanted total power. I’m the only reason half this board stays invested.”
Arthur said, almost kindly, “We’ll see.”
They started leading him toward the executive elevator.
Then came the phrase that should never have left his mouth.
“Think about the kids!”
For one instant the world narrowed to the shape of his audacity.
I have never been a dramatic woman by nature. Efficient anger has always served me better than expressive anger. But at that moment I came within inches of slapping him myself, not for the affair, not for the money, but for speaking of our children as if they were assets in a negotiation.
Instead I said, “Do not use them as cover.”
He twisted against the guards, face blotched, eyes wild. “They need stability!”
“They need one honest parent. Fortunately, they still have that.”
The guards pushed him forward. The elevator swallowed him. The doors closed on the sound of his continued protest, leaving only the ghost of it in the lobby’s expensive acoustics.
Silence returned, this time fuller, heavier, almost exhausted.
Then all attention shifted toward Tiffany.
She remained on the floor where she had fallen, one hand against her cheek, the other braced on the marble. Without the validation rush of live comments and Mark’s reflected attention, she looked terribly young. Young and furious and frightened and, beneath both, humiliated in a way that suggested this was perhaps the first time she had ever discovered that the stage could turn on its actress.
Her phone still streamed the ceiling.
I walked toward her.
Up close, I could see the faint welt where Mark’s hand had landed. I could also see the stubbornness in her jaw. She would not survive by wilting. That much was obvious.
“You wanted to be famous,” I said.
Her eyes flashed upward. They were green. I had not noticed that before.
“Congratulations. You are likely the most discussed woman in New York at this exact moment.”
She swallowed. “Go to hell.”
“Probably later,” I said. “For now, unlock your phone and hand it to Arthur. The live stream is evidence.”
