“There usually is.”
He leaned forward, pale‑blue eyes intense. “I need your help, Katherine. I don’t know what that looks like or what it costs, but I need someone who can see through the noise and tell me if there’s a way out of this.”
“I’m a waitress,” I reminded him.
“You’re Katherine Wells,” he said. “And despite everything that happened, you were one of the best financial minds in Chicago before your son destroyed your company.”
Something stirred in my chest—a feeling I hadn’t experienced in two years. Professional pride, maybe, or just the simple pleasure of being recognized for something other than my son’s crimes.
“What exactly are you asking me?”
“I’m asking you to save my company.”
“Save your company?” I repeated, making sure I’d heard him correctly. “Mr. Blackwell, I serve coffee and take orders for eggs. I haven’t touched a consulting project in two years, and when I did, it ended with federal raids and criminal investigations.”
“Because your son was dishonest,” Harrison said bluntly. “Not because you were incompetent.”
The words hung in the air between us. It was the first time in two years anyone had made that distinction without being paid to represent me legally.
“Besides,” he continued, “what do you have to lose? You’re working at a diner in a neighborhood where the sirens play lullabies. I’m offering you a chance to do what you were born to do. And if I can’t be saved—if the company collapses anyway—then at least I’ll go down knowing I tried everything, including swallowing my pride and asking a waitress for help.”
I studied his face, looking for signs of deception or desperation. Both were there, but underneath was something else—respect, maybe, or just the recognition that pride was a luxury he could no longer afford.
“I’d need to do this legally,” I said slowly. “I maintained my Series 66 license and kept my LLC active. Old habits. Never thought I’d need them again.”
