Chapter 33: Nathaniel Confronts Beatrice

Beatrice Whitmore did not keep an office.

She had rooms where work happened. Libraries where documents rested. Sitting rooms where conversations altered futures. But no single space claimed authority over her decisions. Power, to Beatrice, was not something you sat behind. It was something you carried.

Nathaniel Crosswell was shown into a winter parlor overlooking Celestine Heights’ eastern gardens. The windows were tall. The glass old. Outside, the hedges were trimmed with a precision that bordered on reverence.

Beatrice stood near the window, her hands folded loosely at her waist.

“You’re early,” she said, without turning.

“I prefer efficiency,” Nathaniel replied.

She smiled faintly. “So I’ve been told.”

He waited. Silence here was deliberate. Every second measured. Beatrice Whitmore never wasted quiet.

“I assume this meeting concerns the port authority,” he said at last.

She turned then, her expression mild. Almost kind. “Everything concerns the port authority. But that is not why