“You want to talk about appropriate?” My voice is steady enough to shock me. “You’re accusing him of abuse at a charity gala in front of donors.”
A hushed ripple runs through the crowd.
I walk straight toward the podium. People part, whispering like grass in the wind. Karen’s mouth tightens in panic as I climb the steps, heels clicking loud in the dead quiet. She reaches for my arm. I pull away without even looking at her. “Don’t touch me.”
The microphone is right there, waiting. I take it.
My hands shake. My pulse roars. I can feel the weight of a thousand eyes and the heat of flashbulbs. I can feel Anthony’s gaze on me now, sharp and disbelieving.
I inhale. Then I speak.
“My name is April Swan,” I say, and my voice carries, clear and clean. “I work at Voss & Bartley. And I’m pregnant with Anthony Voss’s child.”
The ballroom makes a sound. It’s a collective inhale, shifting bodies, the soft metallic scrape of forks set down.
Karen’s lips part like she wants to interrupt. I keep going anyway.
“We weren’t going to share that because I’m early, but fuck it — sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” I say, panic already clawing up my throat. I might write speeches, but I’m sure as shit not good at giving them, especially not on the fly. “I’m having to announce that to all of you because I’m tired of being spoken about like I’m not in the room. Like I’m a headline. Like I’m a pawn. Like I’m too young or too weak or too stupid to make my own decisions.”
My throat tightens. I swallow hard. I force the next words out anyway.
“I wasn’t coerced,” I repeat. “I wasn’t threatened. I wasn’t trapped. I chose this.”
Saliva pools in my mouth.
“And I know what you’re thinking,” I continue, eyes scanning the crowd. “I know you want a clean story. A villain. A victim. A powerful man exploiting a vulnerable employee. It’s an easy narrative. It fits in a headline and it makes you feel righteous while you sip champagne.”
I glance at Anthony. He’s standing rigid, hands at his sides, eyes locked on me like he can’t decide if I’m saving him or destroying him. For the second time since I met him, he looks shaken. And it hurts, partly because I did that.
“I didn’t plan to fall into any of this,” I say, voice softer now, and it costs more than the sharper lines. “I didn’t plan to want him. But I think—” I swallow again, tears threatening, “—I think I wanted him long before any of this started. Long before anyone offered me anything.”
A hush falls so deep I can hear my own breathing.
“My family needed help,” I say, and the truth tastes like iron. “My sister’s daughter is seriously unwell. She was drowning in debt. And I was… doing what women do. Taking on too much and pretending it was fine.” I lift my chin. “Anthony helped. And yes, I helped him in return.”
I don’t say contract. I don’t say clause. I don’t say numbers or papers or signatures. I don’t give Karen ammunition.
“I told myself it would be simple,” I continue. “A trade. A solution. Something we could keep separate from feelings.” My laugh is small and shaky. “I was wrong. We were both wrong.”
I look at Karen, staring daggers into her.
“Because the part you don’t get to decide,” I say, voice tightening, “is what it became.”
My eyes sweep the crowd again. “I fell for him,” I say, and my voice breaks just enough to make it honest. “Love, maybe? Who knows? Not the pretty kind. Not the easy kind. The kind that terrifies you because it makes you do stupid things. The kind that turns your life inside out.”
My chest rises and falls too fast. I force myself to finish.
“He wanted to marry me,” I say, hiding theneedwith awant, and the shock in the room hits like a wave. “And I—” I glance at Anthony, and my eyes sting hard. “I will. If you stillwantthat.”
Karen makes a sound, sharp. “This is?—”
I cut her off without looking away from him. “I will,” I repeat, voice stronger now.
The room explodes into noise—gasps, murmurs, flashes, whispers, people standing to get a better view. I hand the microphone back to the stand like it’s suddenly too heavy, then step off the podium without waiting for permission. Karen says something into the microphone behind me, but I’m not listening.
I walk straight to Anthony Voss.
He doesn’t move until I’m in front of him. Up close, I can see the strain in his face, the tightness around his mouth, the barely contained storm in his eyes.
