He inhaled deeply, catching the sharp scent of summer citrus and that intangible mix of ambition and possibility that defined this city after dark. The exhale came slowly, as if reluctant to leave.
He swept his gaze over his surroundings: string lights, flowers, and guests clustered in carefully curated groups with their calculated charm and expensive champagne flutes.
He’d called Ms. Birdie this morning, begged for advice on how to approach Frankie with an apology wrapped up in anything but apology paper.
Her solution? Show up at a black-tie event she was hosting tonight, bring a grovel gift, and dress like regret had a designer label. That was it. No details. Just a cryptic promise that if he played along, he’d see Frankie tonight.
It wasn’t until a knot of guests shifted that he spotted the marquee beneath a canopy of Edison bulbs.
A Night of Second Chances
Honoring
Lola, the Future of Fashion
&
Georgianna, the Architect of Do-Overs
All proceeds benefit The Georgianna Birdie Center for At-Risk Youth
His chest tightened and the noise fell to a murmur. An event for Lola and for Gi Gi, not apologies but a celebration. Pride climbed his throat. Pride in Lola, who refused to disappear. Pride in Ms. Birdie, who made second chances look effortless. And pride in Gi Gi, who never believed rescue ended with them, who kept feeding, mentoring, and championing a dozen other strays until they stood on their own.
He’d come for Frankie, but he was not the only one being handed a second chance tonight. This was also Lola’s, and it was a way to honor Gi Gi.
His gaze drifted to the marquee stand again. The Georgianna Birdie Center for At-Risk Youth.
It had always been the GB Center. Quiet. Anonymous. Just two women who saw a need and filled it.
Now Gi Gi’s full name was spelled out in lights.
A rush of emotion hit him like whiskey against an open wound.
Gi Gi stepping into the light with her boys made the lump in his throat impossible to breathe past.
Glancing around as he tried to gather the frayed edges of his composure, Marcus caught sight of Ms. Birdie gliding across the rooftop.
She wore a black silk jumpsuit, and a cape fluttered dramatically behind her.
“Marcus, darling.” Ms. Birdie air-kissed both of his cheeks. “You made it.”
He gave her a dry look. “You knew I would.”
“Correct,” she agreed sweetly.
“What makes you think this will work?” He gestured to the rooftop.
Ms. Birdie tilted her chin, clearly pleased. “Darling, I was not crowned the Queen of Love by watching people crash and burn while I sift through the ashes.”
He sighed. “That bad?”
“Indeed, it is. I’ve done what I can.” Her gaze slid to the gift box in his hand. “You brought one. Good. Tell me it’s not something generic.” She arched a brow. “If it doesn’t shout Frankie, keep the ribbon on.”
“It’s not generic.” Marcus glanced down at the gift box in his hand. If what was inside didn’t work, nothing would.
“Excellent.”
“Are you sure it’s safe to have Frankie anywhere near this event?”
