//CLARA//
The drawing room was silent, save for the rhythmic, dry scratch of Mr. Cromwell's fountain pen and Oliver's barely audible breathing.
I watched the ink dry on the top page. I didn't need to explain why I was doing this.
"Fifty-fifty," Mr. Cromwell murmured, his spectacles sliding down his nose. "And you are certain about the veto clause, Mr. Whitfield? Miss Thorne would have final authority over the public image of the company."
Oliver looked at me. I didn't blink. I just leaned back, my fingers interlaced over my knee, waiting.
"I'm certain," Oliver said, his voice gaining a resonance it had lacked at the Bazaar. "I know how to build the machine, Mr. Cromwell. She knows how to make the world want it."
"Then we are ready." Mr. Cromwell turned the documents toward us.
The heavy oak doors burst open, striking the stops with a crack that vibrated through the floorboards.
