Preston Vale.
Fifty-eight.
Net worth estimated by financial publications at just over two billion dollars.
Co-founder of Whitmore Vale Aviation.
He had made his first fortune selling a software company in the late 1990s, then invested heavily in aviation. His public reputation depended on charm, expensive charity dinners, and interviews about “old-school standards.”
Naomi’s internal deal notes described him differently.
Highly status-conscious. Limited operational involvement. Strong influence over commercial decisions.
A man beside Preston noticed Naomi.
He whispered something.
Preston looked over.
His gaze traveled from her boots to the green coat.
Then her sunglasses.
He smiled.
Not warmly.
He excused himself from the group and walked toward her.
“You looking for the fashion event?”
Several men behind him laughed.
Naomi looked at him through the dark lenses.
“No.”
Preston smiled wider.
“Then somebody gave you the wrong address.”
The receptionist stepped forward nervously.
“Mr. Vale, she said she’s here for the closing reception.”
Preston glanced toward Naomi’s handbag.
Then at her again.
“Whose guest?”
Naomi allowed several seconds of silence.
“Carter Meridian.”
That changed nothing in his expression.
He assumed affiliation.
Assistant.
Consultant.
Maybe a guest brought by someone on the buyer’s team.
“Carter people are in the conference room.”
He gestured toward the far end of the hangar.
“You’ll need a credential to go past the aircraft.”
Naomi looked toward the jet.
“I’m actually here to inspect it.”
Preston laughed.
The men behind him joined in.
One of them, a private-equity partner named Charles Avery, lifted his champagne glass.
“Inspection team got considerably better dressed.”
More laughter.
Naomi looked toward Avery.
He smiled as though he had paid her a compliment.
She returned her attention to Preston.
“I’d like to see the aircraft.”
“What part?”
“The cabin first.”
Preston stared for a second.
Then turned toward the men behind him.
“Should we give her the tour?”
Avery laughed.
“Depends whether she wants financing.”
The laughter became louder.
One younger employee standing near a tool cart did not laugh.
Naomi noticed.
She noticed almost everything.
Preston stepped closer.
“This aircraft is part of a seven-hundred-seventy-million-dollar transaction.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
His smile tightened.
“Then you understand we’re not letting people wander through the cabin because they like the upholstery.”
Naomi removed her sunglasses.
The conversation around them softened.
Her eyes were not angry.
That seemed to bother him.
“I’m not interested in the upholstery.”
“What are you interested in?”
“Maintenance history, cabin modifications, communications systems, and confirmation that the interior configuration matches the schedule attached to the purchase agreement.”
Silence.
Avery lowered his glass.
Preston studied her.
She clearly knew the deal.
For the first time he considered that she might actually belong there.
But instead of asking, he tried to reassert control.
“You with the buyer’s diligence team?”
“Something like that.”
“Name?”
“Naomi Carter.”
Nothing.
He had heard the name.
Of course he had.
But Naomi Carter appeared in business publications infrequently and often in conservative corporate clothing, hair shorter or tied back, sometimes glasses.
Preston’s mind had already decided who the woman in front of him was.
New information had to fight that decision.
It lost.
“Right,” he said.
Naomi tilted her head.
“Right?”
“The CEO.”
“Yes.”
Avery snorted.
Preston smiled.
“You’re Naomi Carter.”
“Yes.”
He glanced toward the others.
“Of course.”
More laughter.
This time Naomi understood completely.
They thought she was joking.
A man with gray hair near the cocktail table muttered:
“Everybody’s somebody tonight.”
Naomi looked toward him.
Then back to Preston.
“Would you like to verify?”
Preston shrugged.
“I’d like you to stop wasting everyone’s time.”
Naomi felt the first flicker of anger.
Not enough to show.
She reached inside her coat and removed the thin black acquisition folder.
Her name appeared on the front beneath the Carter Meridian insignia.
Preston saw it.
Instead of opening it, he took the folder from her hand.
Naomi let him.
He flipped it once.
Inside were closing instructions, final inspection points, the acquisition summary, and Naomi’s executive authorization page.
Preston barely looked beyond the cover.
Then he tossed it onto a polished steel worktable.
“Anybody can print a folder.”
Naomi stared at him.
Behind Preston, two men laughed again.
The younger employee near the tool cart looked increasingly uncomfortable.
Naomi said:
“I suggest you open it.”
“I suggest you stop.”
His voice had lost the playful tone.
“This is a private hangar.”
“I know.”
“We have an actual buyer arriving.”
“I know.”
“And a lot of money moving tonight.”
“I know exactly how much.”
Preston stepped closer.
“Seven hundred seventy million dollars doesn’t appear because somebody dresses expensive.”
The sentence created a small silence even among the men who had been enjoying the exchange.
Naomi looked at him for several seconds.
“Is that what you think I’m doing?”
“What?”
“Dressing expensive.”
Preston shrugged.
“You tell me.”
Naomi almost smiled.
“Interesting.”
A uniformed security manager approached from near the conference office.
His name badge read DOUGLAS MERCER.
Preston pointed toward Naomi.
“Doug, she needs to wait outside until someone from Carter comes for her.”
Naomi looked toward the security manager.
“I’m not leaving.”
Mercer hesitated.
Preston’s expression hardened.
“See?”
Mercer stepped closer.
“Ma’am, I’m going to ask you to come with me.”
“No.”
“Please don’t make this difficult.”
Naomi looked at him.
“I have a scheduled final inspection of those aircraft.”
Mercer glanced toward Preston.
Preston shook his head.
“Walk her out.”
Naomi turned toward the conference room.
Through the glass wall, she could see several people.
One of them was Grant Ellison.
He had his back to the hangar, talking to a banker over a laptop.
If Naomi raised her voice, he would hear.
She chose not to.
Not yet.
Mercer reached toward her arm.
Naomi stepped back.
“Do not touch me.”
He stopped.
For half a second.
Preston laughed.
“Oh, come on.”
Then Mercer placed a palm against Naomi’s upper arm and pushed her away from the aircraft stairs.
Not violently.
Not enough to knock her down.
Enough.
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