The meeting room was smaller than Lillian expected.
Not a boardroom. Not ceremonial. A working space with long tables, adjustable lighting, and walls designed to absorb sound rather than impress. Mockups were pinned neatly along one side. Schedules projected onto a screen at the far end, quietly cycling through timelines and deliverables.
This was where decisions were made before they were framed as consensus.
Lillian took the seat indicated for vendors and placed her portfolio on the table, aligning it with the edge. Around her, committee members settled in with practiced efficiency, exchanging brief nods and opening digital tablets. No introductions were offered. No one asked her background.
That, too, was a decision.
"We'll begin," the coordinator said. "Miss Bloom, we'd like you to walk us through your proposal for the central installation."
Lillian stood and moved to the display board without hesitation.
"The gala is positioned as a heritage event," she began. "Which means it will be read symbolically, whether intended or not. The centerpiece should acknowledge contrast rather than erase it."
She turned a page.
"Florentis Quarter is built on coexistence," she continued. "Old and new. Modest and grand. That tension is what gives it integrity."
She indicated the sketched design. No flourish. No theatrics.
"The arrangement uses opposing textures and seasonal varieties. Nothing exotic. Nothing imported for spectacle. The intent is balance."
A committee member leaned forward. "You're avoiding statement flowers."
"Yes," Lillian replied. "Statements age quickly."
"And impact," another asked.
"Comes from cohesion," she said. "Not volume."
There was no pushback. Only notation. Pens moved. Screens updated.
"Maintenance," the coordinator said.
"Minimal," Lillian replied. "Everything selected holds shape without constant intervention. The installation will remain intact throughout the event."
"And press visibility," another voice added.
"The structure photographs evenly from all angles," Lillian said. "No dominant focal point. No hierarchy imposed by design."
She stepped back and waited, hands relaxed at her sides.
Silence followed. Not uncomfortable. Deliberative. The kind that weighed options rather than filling space.
Beatrice Whitmore sat at the far end of the table, hands folded loosely, eyes on the design. She did not speak. She did not smile.
She looked… absorbed.
Finally, the coordinator nodded. "We'll proceed as outlined."
Lillian returned to her seat and closed her portfolio, the soft click marking the end of her presentation.
"That will be all," the coordinator said.
The meeting dissolved efficiently. Chairs slid back. Conversations resumed at low volume. No one stopped Lillian as she gathered her things.
As she moved toward the door, Beatrice rose and crossed the room, timing her steps so they converged naturally.
"You speak clearly," Beatrice said.
"I prepare," Lillian replied.
Beatrice inclined her head slightly. "It shows."
Nothing more was said.
Lillian left the room without lingering.
Only after the door closed did Beatrice glance back at the sketches.
Contrast without aggression. Balance without apology.
She smiled faintly.
Not because the design was clever.
But because it was honest.
And honesty, in rooms like these, was the rarest skill of all.