The Woman in the White Shirt
At 3:14 on a bright Saturday afternoon, Imani Brooks stepped through the revolving glass doors of the Bellweather Grand Hotel and immediately saw three women standing around her red Ferrari.
She stopped.
Not because she was shocked to see the car.
She was shocked to see one of the women leaning against it.
Imani was thirty-one, Black, with dark curls pinned into a loose high bun. She wore a crisp white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to her forearms, light-wash ripped jeans, white sneakers, and small gold earrings.
Nothing about her outfit suggested she had spent the previous six hours negotiating a multimillion-dollar construction schedule.
Nothing about it announced that she was the founder and managing director of Brooks Urban Design.
And nothing about it told strangers that the Ferrari sitting in front of the Bellweather Grand belonged to her.
Apparently, that was the problem.
The woman leaning against the driver's-side fender wore a fitted red designer dress, oversized sunglasses, high heels, and a black handbag that probably cost more than some people's monthly rent.
One of her friends was already holding up a phone.
The Ferrari's polished red hood reflected the afternoon sunlight.
The woman in red smiled at her own reflection in the phone screen.
Imani slowly walked closer.
"Excuse me," she said.
The blonde lowered her sunglasses just enough to look Imani over from shoes to hair.
Then she glanced at Imani's white shirt.
She seemed to be searching for a hotel logo.
There wasn't one.
"The valet will move it when we're done," the woman said.
Imani stared at her.
"I'm not asking the valet."
The blonde smiled.
"Then maybe go find him, because we're taking pictures."
Her friend laughed.
The phone remained raised.
Imani looked at the Ferrari.
Then at the woman's hand resting against its roof.
Then back at her.
"Please step away from my car."
The smile disappeared.
For half a second, nobody moved.
Then the woman in red tilted her head.
"Your car?"
"Yes."
Something about the way she said it seemed to amuse them.
Paige Holloway, the woman holding the phone, lowered it slightly.
"Lauren, I think she thinks—"
"I heard her," Lauren Whitmore interrupted.
Lauren looked directly at Imani.
"Are you with the hotel?"
"No."
"Valet?"
"No."
"Security?"
"No."
Lauren's expression became almost playful.
"Then who are you?"
Imani could have answered immediately.
She could have said her name.
She could have mentioned the Ferrari's registration.
She could have called the valet manager.
She could have done what powerful people often did when they were challenged: reminded everyone exactly how powerful they were.
Instead, she simply repeated herself.
"Please step away from my car."
Lauren laughed.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just enough for her friends to understand that she considered the situation ridiculous.
"You know," Lauren said, "some people really shouldn't be so aggressive about other people's things."
Imani felt something cold settle behind her ribs.
She wasn't angry.
Not yet.
She was disappointed.
Because this was the third time that day someone at Bellweather Grand had decided she did not belong somewhere she actually belonged.
Six months earlier, she had been invited to bid on the hotel's largest renovation in its history.
Three months later, her firm had won it.
And now she was standing outside the hotel, asking a stranger to stop using her car as a photography prop.
The irony would have been funny if it weren't so familiar.
Imani took one step closer.
"I'll say this one more time. Please step away from the Ferrari."
Lauren folded her arms.
"Or what?"
Imani looked at her.
Nothing in her expression changed.
"Or I'll ask hotel security to remove you."
Paige laughed.
"Hotel security?"
Lauren smiled.
"Go ahead."
That was when the valet manager came running across the driveway.
"Ms. Brooks!"
Lauren's face changed.
The manager stopped beside Imani, breathing hard.
"Ms. Brooks, I'm so sorry. I was looking for you."
Imani nodded.
"That's fine."
The manager looked at Lauren and her friends.
Then at the Ferrari.
His expression immediately hardened.
"Ma'am, you need to step away from the vehicle."
Lauren blinked.
"What?"
"This is Ms. Brooks's vehicle."
Paige lowered the phone completely.
Lauren stared at Imani.
For the first time that afternoon, she seemed to realize that the woman standing in front of her had never been confused about who owned the car.
She had simply refused to explain herself.
The valet manager continued.
"Ms. Brooks is the Bellweather renovation project lead."