Page 6 of Token

Seven men were seated around a long lacquered table with a projector and laptop set up at the end.

Clearly, she hadn’t received the memo outlining appropriate meeting attire, as all of the men wore, if not Brooks Brothers suits, then a close stylistic relation, in varying shades of gray and dark gray. She approximated their ages ranged from late thirties to midsixties.

She was, quite literally, the one spot of color in the room, and the only woman. What, they couldn’t rope in another woman to be part of the charade? Or had she filled that quota too?

Kennedy was long accustomed to being the only Black person in the room—any room. However, being the only woman added a whole other level of self-consciousness.

Suck it up.This is the world you live in.

And so, with that bit of wry encouragement, she lifted her chin. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Her tone, friendly and polite, conveyed a confidence she could construct at will with little more than ego and pride.

Their response came in a chorus of perfectly courteousgood afternoonsand more than one speculative glance.

It was funny when she thought about it. They greeted her every day when they passed the reception desk, yet today, they would sit shoulder to shoulder with her, pretending to be her peers.

“Yes, over there will be fine.” Maureen ushered two deliverymen carrying platters of food into the room and directed them to the table by the windows overlooking the congested streets of lower Manhattan.

Kennedy stepped aside, allowing the men to pass while eyeing the platter of gourmet sandwiches and chocolaty desserts, and thinking about the lunch she’d skipped and the current state of her appetite. Ferocious.

The sound of voices in the outer office caught everyone’s attention. Heads turned, necks craned, and spines straightened.

The star had arrived.

Boy, she really did look like Aaliyah, was Kennedy’s first thought when she finally laid eyes on the singer. She looked younger than the twenty-eight listed on her Wikipedia page. Other than that, she looked the same, from her long dark brown box braids, flawless skin, and perfectly made-up face, right down to a pair of skinny pre-ripped jeans and strappy three-inch sandals. Chic casual. And she rocked the look with enviable confidence and panache.

Mr. Donald Edwards, all smiles and bonhomie, shepherded the Grammy winner and her accompanying three-woman team into the conference room. That the team was all female and diverse—Black, Hispanic, and Asian—didn’t come as a huge surprise, but it drew a marked contrast to the company’s almost all-white male team.

Maureen silently indicated Kennedy’s place at the table, where the spare laptop she’d been using was on and fully charged, before departing with the deliverymen.

Except for the new arrivals, who were still conversing, everyone else sat quietly, waiting. Watching.

“Okay, it looks like everyone’s here,” Mr. Edwards announced with a brief look around, “so why don’t we get started?”

That was when Sahara turned her attention from him to the rest of the ECO team.

Kennedy, who liked to believe she could read people pretty well—with some notable exceptions—saw agirding of the loinswariness in the way the singer’s gaze scanned the faces around the table. Which made sense, given what had happened yesterday. She was no doubt wondering if she’d be walking out on another meeting. Then Sahara’s gaze met hers and pleasure mingled with relief, producing a smile that reached her big brown eyes.

The ripple effect of that relief played out in the expressions of every maleexecutive in the room; a mental wiping of the brow followed by a gratifiedinitial hurdle cleared.

When Mr. Edwards flashed Kennedy an approving smile, she berated herself for selling out for a mere ten thousand dollars.Pittance.She should have held out for twenty and she probably would have gotten it.

Mr. Edwards performed the introductions, and when it was Kennedy’s turn—last but not least—she gracefully stood and shook hands with the beautiful singer and her team while the CEO offered a brief description of her fictitious role in the company. “Kennedy is our media relations expert in charge of all aspects of our print, TV, and digital campaigns.”

Expert, huh?In the span of hours, not only had they elevated her title but her expertise level as well. The heels she had to fill were getting higher by the minute.

“And here I thought you’d brought in one of the models auditioning one of the designs,” Sahara said with an audacious wink. Kennedy smiled faintly and a smatter of chuckles erupted around the table.

Look who’s talking, Kennedy wanted to say, not sure if the singer was joking or not, but it made for a flattering, lighthearted icebreaker.

“Beautiful as well as talented—that’s our Kennedy.”

Our Kennedy?When exactly had they graduated to that level of intimacy?Dare she tell Mr. CEO that he was laying it on a tad thick? Or better yet, she should instruct him to add another zero to the amount on her bonus check—then he could“Our Kennedy”all he wanted.

“Can I just say that I love,lovewhat you’re wearing. That outfit is fire.” Sahara waved red manicured fingers at Kennedy’s skirt. “The bow is a fabulous touch. And the cuffs, are they Neapolitan?”

Kennedy felt safe in concluding the singer wasn’t referring to the ice cream or the people of Naples.

“It’s not one of our designs, but you’re right about the cuffs,” John Cavendish, head of Design, cut in smoothly.

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