Everything is slipping, everything I built, everything I tried to protect, and I’m standing in the center of it, looking at an empty doorway, thinking one helpless thought over and over?—
Where is April?
Chapter 29
April
The first thing I hear when I step into the ballroom is talk of me—only it isn’t my name. It’s the ugly, sharpened version of me that other people have been passing around like a rumor.
Vulnerable employee. Coerced. Exploited.
Karen Bartley is at the podium, bathed in spotlight, wearing glory like jewelry. And Anthony stands in the middle of the room, tall in black, face carved into control, hands steady, voice carrying without a microphone because he was born with command in his throat.
He looks like he’s holding the company up on his spine. And for a horrible second, I realize that if he falls; I helped push.
My stomach drops, not with morning sickness, but with pure, clean dread.
I’m dressed to the nines. Nicky dragged me through two stores and a meltdown and one very aggressive pep talk until we found the dress that made me feel like I could walk into fire and not burn. Dark, elegant, fitted through the waist and hips, the kind of fabric that moves like water and catches light when I breathe. My hair is pinned back in a bun, curls hanging around my cheeks. My makeup is sharp enough to pass as confidence.
I should feel powerful.
I feel like I’m about to be sick on a donor.
Cameras pop near the stage — press, because of course there’s press. They’re already feeding like vultures. Likesharks.
I scan the room, panic flaring, trying to understand how deep the damage is. People are whispering behind hands. Phones are out under tables. A few donors look delighted in that terrible, secret way people look when a scandal interrupts their dinner.
Karen’s voice cuts across the air again, righteous and calm. “—You can bury it. So you can silence —”
I start moving. Not running. Not pushing. Just moving with purpose through a sea of expensive bodies that part instinctively because something in my face warns them that I’m on a mission.
I pass faces that blur. I pass women who glance at me like they’re judging. Men who look at me like they’re curious whether I’m the villain or the victim. Someone murmurs, “Is that—” and someone else shushes them.
And then—briefly—the room hushes in the space between her sentence and his response.
In that sliver of quiet, Anthony’s gaze flicks toward the entrance. Toward where I was. And for the first time outside of an empty room with just the two of us, he looks… human.
Not the CEO. Not the man made of steel. Not the one who commands rooms with a glance.
A man looking for someone who might not show.
Vulnerable, just for a heartbeat.
He doesn’t see me because I’ve already moved across the room, already threaded myself between tables and bodies. He’s staring at an empty doorway while I’m three rows away, shaking, breath caught, heart punching against my ribs.
Something in me snaps. Not anger. Not strategy. Just the intolerable idea of him standing there alone while Karen lies.
I don’t think. I don’t plan. I just open my mouth and throw my truth into the air like a grenade.
“I wasn’t coerced.”
The sentence slices through the ballroom like a blade. Every head turns. Cameras swivel so fast I can hear the slapping of straps hitting faces. Flash after flash detonates, turning the room into white strobe light.
Karen’s face twists. “April?—”
I don’t flinch. For once, I don’t shrink. I step forward as if the spotlight belongs to me.
Karen lifts a hand like she can stop me with a gesture. “This is not appropriate?—”
