Right. We did.
Still, I hate it.
A question sits on my tongue. The one she told me to ask on the way.
Does it bother you? The timing of the donation. Using charity to make me look good.
But now, watching her make those precise annotations in the margins of her legal pad, I realize I don’t actually want to know the answer.
Her approval shouldn’t matter this much. Doesn’t change the foundation’s position, doesn’t alter Xavier’s threat.
But somewhere between waking up with her hair in my face and watching her hunt through archival documents like a woman possessed, her high opinion became the thing I’m most afraid of losing.
And if she says it bothers her, I’m not sure I’ll be able to go through with this.
So I don’t ask.
I look out the window instead and tell myself it’s strategic silence.
Coward.
The venue is already crowded when we arrive. It’s an outdoor baseball diamond next to the school. There are local officials, school administrators, parents, and kids.
Thorne is positioned near the entrance to the field, scanning the crowd with the focused intensity of someone who’s cataloged every exit and identified every potential threat.
He nods once as we approach. “Perimeter secure. I’ve got two drones on radar. One’s press credentialed. The other was of unknown origin... local authorities grounded it.”
“Xavier?”
“Arrived moments before you. He’s staying at the periphery. We’ve already given him a warning. He can watch but not engage.”
Of course he’s here. The bastard wants to see me perform. Wants to evaluate my public image so he knows exactly how to destroy it.
I smooth my jacket and step into the crowd.
For the next hour, I’m the version of myself that the foundation needs me to be. Charming. Approachable. Genuinely passionate about education access.
I shake hands with teachers. I talk to kids about their favorite subjects. I pose for photos with the new computers that will be installed next week. It’s the same skill set I use to close funding rounds: read the audience, find the hook, make them feel part of something bigger. The mechanics are identical even if the mission isn’t, and I can’t decide if that makes me effective or just well-practiced at manipulation.
Amara stays at my side, smiling for the cameras, playing the role of professional colleague with flawless precision. Only I notice the tension in her shoulders. Only I see the way her eyes track Xavier’s position at the edge of the gathering.
She’s magnificent, honestly. A natural performer when she needs to be. It makes me wonder what else she’s been hiding beneath that controlled exterior.
The press eats it up. Headlines are already forming in my mind.
“Saelinger Foundation Invests in Eleuthera’s Future.”
“Billionaire Philanthropist Champions Island Education.”
Exactly the narrative I need.
And yet I feel like an asshole.
Because every handshake is both genuine and strategic. Every photo is authentic and calculated. The money will help real families, and I’m also using it as a shield against a scandal I didn’t cause but can’t seem to escape.
This is what philanthropy looks like when you’re desperate.
Fuck.
