The Four Seasons lobby glitters with early morning sun, all marble shine and perfume-heavy air.
Victoria Ashford stands by the windows in a crisp cream Chanel suit, laughing a little too loudly with two German investors who already declined her last week. She’s still trying to charm a miracle out of them.

A Black man in a navy polo, pressed khakis, and spotless white sneakers walks toward her, a leather portfolio tucked under his arm. His posture is calm, professional.

“Ms. Ashford? Darien Cole,” he says. “We have a 9:00 meeting about the Series C investment.”

He offers his hand.

Victoria looks at it like it’s something dirty.

She takes a half-step back, both hands buried in her pockets, her face pinching with disgust. “Excuse me—who let you in here?”

The Germans stop mid-sentence.

“This is a private meeting for serious investors,” Victoria adds, her voice sharp enough to cut. “Not for people like you.”

The words land in the open air. Heads turn. A concierge pauses behind the desk. Somewhere nearby, a phone lifts, recording.

Darien’s hand lowers slowly. “If you’d just check with your assistant—”

“I said leave,” Victoria snaps, louder now, as if volume equals authority. “Security. Remove him before I call the police.”

Two guards hurry over. One is older, Black, and looks like he hates this. The other is younger, stiff, and eager to follow orders. Darien doesn’t argue. He keeps his chin up, nods once, and walks out with measured steps while strangers watch like it’s entertainment.

Victoria smooths her jacket as if she’s brushing off dust. She turns back to her guests with a bright, practiced smile.

It was about how quickly power dehumanizes—and what it costs to rebuild the part of you that should have been human all along.