"Here's my angle," she says finally. "The program works because it treats people like people. Not projects or PR. It makes space for messy, complicated, real human, sorry, realpersonthings to happen. And yeah, sometimes that means romantic relationships. So what? We don't shut down offices because coworkers date."
"That's what I keep saying."
"Right. So Wednesday, you get up there and you say exactly that. No apologies, no defensive crouch. Just: this is whathappened, this is why it matters, and if you have a problem with people connecting across difference, that's your issue, not mine."
Tess nods along, making notes. "I can work with this. Maya, can you have the piece up before the hearing?"
"I'll have it live tonight."
They high-five. I feel like I've been drafted into a resistance I didn't know I was joining.
After Maya leaves, I have ninety minutes before the next thing on Tess's agenda. I use it to hide in the stockroom and practice my testimony until the words blur together.
My phone chimes. Evan.
Can we talk? Important.
I gaze at the message, debating whether I have the energy for whatever this is. Then, because avoiding him has never worked:When?
Now? I'm outside.
Of course he is.
I find him on the path, hands in pockets, wearing the same concerned expression he used to deploy when I was stressed about work. It's meant to be comforting. It sets my teeth on edge.
"Hey."
"Hey yourself." I cross my arms, already feeling my shoulders tense. Whatever this is, I don't want it spilling into the bookstore where Tess can see. "What's important?"
"Can we go somewhere? Coffee, maybe? There's that place on Fifth you used to like."
The suggestion irritates me more than it should—the assumption that I still go there, that he still knows my habits, that we're the kind of exes who do coffee. "I'm kind of caffeinated out. Here's fine."
He glances at the bookstore windows. Tess is visible inside, on her phone. "It's about the hearing."
"What about it?"
Evan shifts his weight, rehearsing something. I recognize the tells. The slight shoulder roll, the way his jaw sets. He's about to make an offer.
"I know things are complicated right now. The program review, the press, all of it." His eyes meet mine. "I want to help."
"Help how?"
"The firm's been looking at commercial investments. Small businesses with community value, good fundamentals. Your bookstore fits the profile." He pulls out his phone, shows me a document. "We could structure a partnership. Capital infusion, operational support, marketing budget. You'd maintain creative control, but we'd handle the financial risk."
The numbers are generous. Too generous.
"What's the catch?"
"No catch. Just, given the current climate, it might be smart to distance yourself from controversy. Let the program placement end naturally, bring in neutral staff." He pockets the phone. "I'm not saying dump Stone. I'm saying take the target off your back long enough for this to blow over."
The compass in my pocket suddenly feels heavier.
"By distance, you mean what exactly?"
"Publicly acknowledge the relationship was a mistake. Poor judgment, learning experience, whatever language works. Then step back, focus on the business." His voice gentles. "Lacy, they're going to eat you alive tomorrow. Blair's got ammunition and she's going to use it. But if you walk in there with a plan to correct course, you take her power away."
"Correct course." The words taste like ash. "You mean apologize for falling in love."
