The Grand Meridian Hotel ballroom glittered with crystal chandeliers and the flash of expensive jewelry. Emma adjusted her black cocktail dress, feeling like a shark among sharks. Team owners, general managers, and league officials circulated with champagne flutes and predatory smiles.
"Quite the vulture feast," muttered Diane, Emma's assistant and closest friend.
Emma nodded. "Nothing says 'professional sports' like auctioning human beings in formal wear."
"Your father's watching," Diane whispered.
Across the room, Harold Blackwood stood with the team's financial director, his eyes fixed on Emma. He gave a small, expectant nod.
"Remind me of our ceiling again?" Emma asked, though she knew the answer.
"Your father said, and I quote, 'No ceiling. Whatever it takes.'"
The lights dimm
