Silence. “Harrison.” “They were legitimate strategy expenses.” “For Ashford?”
“For brand work that overlaps with future development.” Eleanor looked at the invoice description on her screen: Market positioning and member-experience architecture. “The Ashford project is a one-hundred-twelve-unit apartment renovation,” she said. “It does not have a membership experience.”
“That’s not the point.” “It is precisely the point.” Harrison breathed hard into the phone. “We were going to reimburse it once Mercer House funding closed.”
There it was. Not theft in his own mind. Borrowing from a pocket he believed would eventually become his. “Who is we?”
Eleanor asked. “Mom.” “Who is we?” “Sloan and me.”
“Did the board approve a loan from Whitmore Residential Group to either of you?” “No.” “Did I?” “No.”
“Did Martin?” “No.” “Then there is no we. There is you, using corporate authority for a personal venture involving your girlfriend.”
Harrison’s voice changed from defensive to pleading. “I wasn’t taking money. It was temporary.” “Tomorrow morning, you are suspended with pay pending an independent review.”