Blair's ears went crimson. The exact shade they'd turned in the conference room when I'd reminded her which way the bet would break. She grabbed her cracked water bottle and drank from it like she could drown the reaction if she committed hard enough.
Naomi's thumb moved against my thigh, one slow pass, an anchor and a warning at once.
The thing about running eight people who couldn't agree on lunch was that the meeting only worked if I let it look like it wasn't mine. Belle handled the numbers. Blair handled the tactical calls she was constitutionally incapable of surrendering. Naomi held the emotional center without knowing that was her job. Javier fed us data. Jordan complained until his complaints turned into contingency plans. Hikaru said nothing and noticed everything.
My job was to sit here, eat my rubber eggs, and drop one sentence at the exact moment the room needed a decision instead of an argument.
"Blair's right about the shelf," I said.
