I look at him. “Fine. Mildly concerned.”
“About what?”
“That I'll mix up my forks. Call someone by the wrong name. Accidentally insult a major donor.”
“You won't.”
“You don't know that.”
“I do.” The elevator doors open to the lobby. “You've planned events for people who make these donors look modest. You know how to read a room. And you're going to walk in there and make them all wonder how they've been hosting dinners without you.”
I step out into the lobby. “That's a lot of confidence in someone you've known for four weeks.”
“Five. And yes.”
* * *
EVAN
The restaurant is the kind of place that requires a reservation three months in advance. Stark white facade, single word in brass letters: Meridian. Inside, everything is muted elegance—low lighting, hushed voices, the kind of wealth that doesn't need to announce itself.
The hostess leads us through the main dining room. Holly's taking it all in. Women in designer dresses. Men in bespoke suits, conducting business over wine that's older than I am.
This is my world. I've never questioned it before.
Watching Holly navigate it makes me see it differently.
The private room is in the back. Round table, fresh flowers. Two walls of windows overlooking the city, the other two lined with art I should probably recognize but don't.
Holly walks the perimeter. Clicks her heels once against the hardwood, then again near the windows. Testing acoustics.
I continue briefing her on the expected guests. “Richard and Patricia Whitmore. Major foundation donors. He made his fortune in pharmaceuticals, she runs a family trust. They're considering a seven-figure commitment to the scholarship fund.”
“And they want to meet me because ... ?”
“Because I told them you're restructuring our gala approach. Patricia loves a good story. Richard likes efficiency. You're both.”
She's about to respond when I hear: “Evan!”
My mother sweeps into the room in pearls and another Chanel, all gracious warmth.
“Mother.” I stand. “This is Holly Bennett. Holly, my mother, Catherine Bellamy.”
“It's lovely to meet you, Mrs. Bellamy.”
“Catherine, please.” My mother takes Holly's hand, studying her with the assessing look I've seen her use a thousand times. “Evan's told me so much about you.”
“He has?”
“Well, not much. You know how he is—frustratingly private. But I gather you're planning our winter gala?”
“I am.”
“Wonderful. I'm looking forward to seeing what you've done with it.”
They chat—Catherine asking about Holly's background, Holly answering gracefully. My mother is charming. Interested.
So far, so good.
