I feel something cold settle behind my sternum. “In the court of public opinion, a powerful CEO and a younger employee looks like a headline no matter what the truth is.”
Brant exhales. “It’s going to be her word against yours.”
“And Karen will make sure it sounds like April’s word,” I say, the bitterness sharp. “Even if April never opens her mouth.”
Brant watches me for a moment. “Have you heard from her?”
I don’t answer fast enough.
His expression shifts — something like sympathy, which is worse than contempt. “Anthony…”
“I sent her a photo,” I admit, and the admission tastes like ash. “Aidan leaving a café with her. Karen sent it to me. I reacted.”
Brant’s eyebrows lift. “You walked into a trap. And you accused her.”
“I implied,” I say tightly.
“Same thing.”
I turn my head slightly, scanning the room again — red hair, dark hair, jewels, black ties, white teeth. No April. No green eyes behind glasses. No wavy blonde hair. No familiar posture trying to look composed while the world watches.
“I don’t think I can save it,” I say, low enough that only Brant hears. The words come out before I can stop them, like the truth has been waiting all evening for a crack in my control. “I can fight Karen. I can fight Snow. I can fight the board. I can fight the press. But I can’t fight the damage I did to her.”
Brant’s gaze stays on my face. “You think it was doomed from the start.”
I swallow, jaw flexing. “I do not think I managed it well.”
Brant’s mouth twitches, not amused. “You don’t manage love,” he says. “You show up for it.”
The sentence lands harder than it should. Like he’s reached inside my chest and flicked a switch I didn’t know existed.
I show up for acquisitions. For negotiations. For battles. For quarterly targets and hostile rooms full of people waiting for me to blink.
Love isn’t a room I’ve ever walked into without trying to control the outcome.
My fingers tighten around the stem of the glass. “I tried to show up,” I say, but it sounds weak even to me.
Brant’s eyes flick to the door again, then back. “Then keep showing up,” he says. “If she comes tonight, don’t talk like a man with a strategy. Talk like a man who means it.”
If she comes.
The words loop in my head as Brant is pulled into a conversation with another board member. I let him go and keep moving, smile set, posture perfect, eyes hunting.
Minutes stretch. Ten become twenty. The room fills, the donation boards update, and the auction items draw little clusters of interest. I don’t feel confident. I feel like I’m waiting to be hit.
I check my phone once discreetly.
Nothing.
The podium lights up. The quartet softens. People drift toward their seats with the obedient rustle of expensive fabric. Applause begins in polite waves as the emcee welcomes everyone, thanks sponsors, names causes, reads numbers designed to make generosity sound glamorous.
My table has an empty seat with a card that readsA. Swanin crisp black ink. It stares at me like an accusation. I try to keep my face neutral, but God, it’s hard.
Then Karen Bartley stands.
She moves toward the podium with the ease of someone who has always known the room will watch her when she wants it to. She’s dressed in a sleek and pale white dress that makes her look like she belongs under a spotlight. Her smile is warm, controlled, and charitable.
A performance.
