Chapter 1 - Six Words at Table Twelve
Grant Holloway lifted my cracked phone above the table and laughed.
“Tell us what to buy, Wall Street.”
The billionaire turned the screen toward his friends and pointed at a red financial chart.
A tiny number flashed beneath the graph:
4.7B.
Grant stopped smiling.
This was not a joke anymore.
My name is Fiona Adam, and until that Sunday morning, the richest man I had ever spoken to had tipped me twenty dollars.
That was usually how men like Grant Holloway entered my life.
Briefly.
Expensively.
Without remembering my name.
Table Twelve had arrived twenty minutes late and somehow managed to make the entire restaurant feel as though everyone else had arrived early.
Four men in tailored summer suits crossed the marble floor of Bellamy House like they owned not only the building but the block beneath it. The hostess straightened. The manager appeared from nowhere. Two servers suddenly discovered urgent reasons to polish glasses nearby.
Grant Holloway walked in front.
Even if I hadn't recognized him from business magazines, I would have known he was the important one.
Not because he was the loudest.
He wasn't.
Grant had the relaxed confidence of a man who had spent his entire adult life watching rooms rearrange themselves for him.
Thirty-four years old. Founder, chairman, and public face of Holloway Group. Hotels. Energy. Private aviation. Commercial real estate. Enough wealth that financial reporters used the word empire without irony.
His friends were Reid Mercer, Julian Cross, and Nate Bell.
I learned those names because the manager whispered them into my ear before sending me toward the table.
“Champagne immediately,” he said. “And Fiona?”
“Yes?”
“Nothing goes wrong.”
That was the entire job description when billionaires came to brunch.
Nothing goes wrong.
I poured champagne.
I delivered oysters.
I replaced Julian's fork after he dropped it.
I listened to Nate complain that the helicopter pad at his summer house had delayed construction by three weeks.
I kept my face neutral.
Then my phone vibrated in my apron.
I ignored it.
It vibrated again.
That mattered.
I had set only three alerts loud enough to repeat during work.
Treasury movement.
Holloway Energy debt spread.
And a regulatory filing containing one particular phrase.
Material liquidity event.
I slipped the phone halfway from my apron while waiting beside the service station.
The crack across the screen ran from the upper-left corner to the bottom edge. I had dropped it on the subway stairs six months earlier and hadn't been able to justify replacing something that still technically worked.
The chart loaded.
My stomach tightened.
Holloway Energy had closed Friday at $74.18.
But the chart wasn't what interested me.
Underneath it sat a bond-market alert.
One of Holloway Energy's largest counterparties had repriced short-term protection after an obscure filing from a regional pipeline authority.
Most investors wouldn't care.
Most analysts probably wouldn't see the connection until Monday.
I did.
Because I had been following the debt structure for eleven months.
“Planning your retirement?”
Grant's voice came from beside me.
I locked the screen.
“Excuse me?”
He was standing less than three feet away.
Up close, he looked less polished than the photographs. Dark hair. Tired eyes. A faint scar near his chin. White jacket open over a white shirt, no tie.
He nodded at my phone.
“You looked very serious.”
“Just checking something.”
“During my brunch?”
The words were teasing.
Almost.
“I apologize.”
I moved to put the phone away.
He reached out.
And took it.
For one second, I thought I had misunderstood what had happened.
“Sir—”
Grant touched the screen.
It woke before I could stop him.
The chart returned.
His eyebrows rose.
“Well, this is unexpected.”
Reid looked over.
“What?”
Grant turned toward the table.
“My waitress thinks she's a Wall Street analyst.”
Laughter exploded.
Not vicious laughter at first.
That somehow made it worse.
The effortless kind.
The kind people used when they had never considered whether the person being laughed at could afford to leave.
Julian lifted his champagne.
“What's the portfolio, sweetheart? Twenty dollars in crypto?”
Nate laughed harder.
My face burned.
“Mr. Holloway, may I have my phone back?”
Instead, Grant held it higher.
“Hang on. I'm fascinated.”
He enlarged the chart.
“You're looking at Holloway Energy.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you have my phone.”
That earned a louder laugh.
Even Grant smiled.
“Fair.”
He looked at the screen again.
“Technical analysis?”
“No.”
“Options?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Debt.”
Something shifted in his expression.
Only slightly.
“You analyze corporate debt between serving eggs Benedict?”
“I read public filings.”
Reid leaned toward Julian.
“This keeps getting better.”
Grant handed my phone toward him, then stopped.
He looked at me.
“Fine.”
His tone became theatrical.
“All right, Wall Street.”
He held the cracked phone between us.
“What should I buy?”
I said nothing.
Grant waited.
His friends watched.
Around us, the brunch continued.
Silverware against porcelain.
A champagne cork somewhere across the room.
Soft jazz near the bar.
I could feel two servers pretending not to stare.
I wanted my phone back.
I wanted to finish my shift.
I wanted enough money to pay the rent that had gone up again.
Instead, I looked at the chart.
Then at Grant.
“You don't want my answer.”
That surprised him.
“I asked.”
“You asked because they're watching.”
His smile faded by half a degree.
“Answer anyway.”
So I did.
Six words.
“Sell Holloway Energy before the opening.”
Reid laughed first.
Julian followed.
Nate nearly spilled his drink.
Grant didn't.
His eyes stayed on mine.
“Holloway Energy is one of our strongest subsidiaries.”
“No.”
The table quieted.
Grant tilted his head.
“No?”
“It was.”
Reid leaned back.
“Oh, this is fantastic.”
I pointed at my phone.
“Scroll down.”
Grant did.
“Further.”
He saw the number.
4.7B.
The amusement disappeared.
“What is that?”
“Debt exposure tied to short-term refinancing.”
“That number isn't public.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, it isn't.”
“It is if you combine four public documents instead of reading the investor presentation.”
Nobody laughed.
Grant looked down again.
I spoke quietly.
“Your annual report lists the aggregate obligation. The subsidiary filing separates the maturity schedule. The pipeline authority disclosed the revised operating restriction Friday afternoon. The lender's collateral language is in the note appendix.”
Grant's thumb stopped moving.
“The restriction doesn't become effective for six months.”
“The covenant test happens first.”
His eyes lifted.
I continued.
“If the lenders recalculate Monday morning, Holloway Energy violates the threshold.”
Nate's glass lowered.
Julian stopped smiling.
Reid stared at me.
Grant said, “That doesn't mean the stock collapses.”
“No.”
I finally reached for my phone.
“It means someone will sell before everybody else understands why.”
This time, he let me take it.
Then he reached inside his jacket.
His own phone probably cost more than three months of my rent.
He unlocked it.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Grant read.
His jaw tightened.
Reid leaned toward him.
“What?”
Grant didn't answer.
He opened another message.
Then another.
His face changed.
Not panic.
Grant Holloway didn't look like a man familiar with panic.
But the confidence had gone.
“What happened?” Julian asked.
Grant looked at me.
“How did you know?”
“I read.”
“No.”
He stepped closer.
“How did you know to look there?”
“Because that's where the risk was.”
His phone rang.
The screen showed one name.
LUCAS VANE — CFO.
Grant answered.
“Lucas.”
A voice spoke rapidly on the other end.
I couldn't hear the words.
But I watched Grant's expression.
“What do you mean the lenders moved the call?”
Silence.
“Tomorrow?”
Another silence.
Grant turned slightly away.
“Why wasn't I told?”
His friends exchanged glances.
I picked up my tray.
My hands were shaking now that nobody could see them.
Grant covered the microphone.
“Don't leave.”
“I'm working.”
“I'll compensate the restaurant.”
“That isn't what I meant.”
For the first time, something like embarrassment crossed his face.
Maybe he finally understood.
He had taken my phone.
Made me entertainment.
Laughed at the life I was trying to build.
Now he needed something from me.
I met his eyes.
“You wanted investment advice.”
Grant said nothing.
“You got it.”
I walked away.
My manager caught me near the kitchen.
“What did you say to him?”
“Nothing inappropriate.”
“He wants you at his table.”
“I have six other tables.”
“Fiona.”
His face had gone pale.
“That's Grant Holloway.”
“I noticed.”
“He asked me to remove your other tables.”
I looked toward Table Twelve.
Grant was standing now.
Nobody there was laughing.
“Don't,” I said.
“What?”
“Don't remove anything.”
“Fiona, if he complains—”
“He stole my phone and mocked me in front of the room.”
My manager opened his mouth.
Closed it.
I returned to work.
For the next forty minutes, Grant remained at Table Twelve.
But brunch had ended.
Reid made calls.
Julian stared at his own screen.
Nate left early.
Grant barely touched his food.
At 12:37, I placed their check on the table.
Grant looked up.
“Ms. Adam.”
That stopped me.
He had read my name tag.
“Yes?”
“Five minutes.”
“For what?”
“Tell me what else you saw.”
“I saw your coffee is cold.”
His mouth almost twitched.
“Please.”
That word sounded unfamiliar on him.
I looked at my manager.
He was watching from across the room.
I sat.
Not because Grant Holloway was a billionaire.
Because I had spent eleven months studying a company nobody expected a waitress to understand.
Grant placed his phone on the table.
A confidential-looking email filled the screen.
He turned it toward me but covered part of the message with his hand.
“Lenders requested an emergency call at seven tomorrow morning.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“They would have to.”
“What happens if we fail the covenant?”
“You refinance.”
“At what cost?”
I told him.
His eyes narrowed.
“That's extremely specific.”
“It's math.”
Reid finally spoke.
“You've been following us for eleven months?”
“Holloway Energy.”
“Why?”
I hesitated.
Grant noticed.
“There's a reason.”
“There are always reasons.”
“What is yours?”
I stood.
“My shift ends at four.”
“That's not an answer.”
“No.”
I picked up the empty champagne glass nearest me.
“It's a boundary.”
I returned to the kitchen.
At four-o-five, I changed out of my apron, pulled on a thrift-store coat, and stepped through the employee exit.
A black car waited at the curb.
Grant leaned against it.
I nearly laughed.
“You cannot be serious.”
“I owe you an apology.”
“That would be a first today.”
He accepted that.
“I shouldn't have taken your phone.”
“No.”
“I shouldn't have embarrassed you.”
“No.”
“I was an ass.”
“That one is accurate.”
Grant exhaled.
Then he held out a business card.
“I want you in my office tomorrow morning.”
“I have another shift.”
“I'll pay for your time.”
“I don't want your money.”
“Everyone wants money.”
I looked at him.
“That sentence probably explains a lot about your life.”
He actually laughed.
Briefly.
Then his phone buzzed.
He glanced down.
The laugh vanished.
Another alert.
Grant read it once.
Then again.
“What?” I asked.
He didn't answer.
Instead, he turned the screen toward me.
A message from his CFO had arrived.
DO NOT MAKE ANY TRADES.
WE MAY HAVE AN INTERNAL INFORMATION BREACH.
Grant looked from the message to me.
Then a second notification appeared.
It contained a single attachment.
A personnel file.
The filename made my blood run cold.
ADAM_THOMAS_2009_CONFIDENTIAL.
Grant stared at my face.
“Fiona…”
I stepped backward.
Because Thomas Adam wasn't an analyst Grant had forgotten.
May you like
He was my father.
And he had been dead for seven years.
