Page 133 of Keller

"Southern Stars needs leadership. Real leadership, not just board meetings and galas."

I keep my eyes forward. "You have a board. And I'm not going anywhere. I can help as I'm available."

"The board manages optics. I'm talking about someone who understands systems and structure. I'm talking full-time, director-level." He glances over at me. "I want someone who knows how to build something that lasts."

The implication lands clearly. I wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of my wrist.

"I fought for my promotion, Nate. I spent years working toward this position. I'm not walking away now that I'm finally gaining traction."

"I'm not asking you to walk away from anything."

"Then what are you asking?"

"I'm asking you to consider what kind of work actuallyservesyou." His stride remains even, unhurried. "Meaningful work should expand a person, Quinn. Not hollow them out."

My jaw tightens. "I'm fine."

"You've lost weight, you look brittle, and you hardly have space for anything besides your work."

"I look tired because I've been working. That's what happens when you take a new assignment seriously."

He does not respond immediately. The silence between us fills with the sound of our footfalls and the distant hum of a barge moving upriver.

"The foundation could use someone with your skills and dedication," he says finally. "That's all I'm saying. It's not ademotion, it's a recalibration that could honor you and our family's legacy."

I increase my pace slightly, forcing him to adjust. My lungs protest, but I ignore them.

"I didn't come here to talk about career changes, Nate. Can we change the subject, please?"

"Yep. Just promise me you'll think about it."

I sprint ahead, forcing him to catch up with me. I'm not making him any promises.

We approach the final stretch where the path curves back toward the parking area. The sun breaks through the haze, bright and sharp against my eyes.

My right foot catches on something. My stride falters.

I stumble but catch myself before I go down. The brick path blurs for a second, and something sharp twists low in my abdomen.

It's not a cramp or the familiar burn of pushing too hard. This is different. Deeper. A hot, pulling sensation that radiates through my pelvis and steals the air from my lungs.

My hand flies to my lower stomach before I can stop it. I press my palm flat against the fabric of my tank top, fingers splayed wide. My stride breaks completely. I am standing still on the path, bent slightly forward, trying to breathe through whatever this is.

"Quinn." Nate's voice cuts through the fog. His footsteps stop beside me. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." The word comes out thin. Unconvincing.

"You're white as a sheet." His hand lands on my shoulder, steadying me. "Here. Drink."

He holds out his water bottle. I take it because refusing would require more energy than I have. The water is warm and tastes faintly plastic-y, but I force down a few swallows anyway.

The pain eases. It's not gone, but dulled to something manageable. Something I can breathe around.

"Just a cramp." I straighten up and hand the bottle back. "I'm fine."

"You haven't been eating enough. I can tell." His blue eyes scan my face with the kind of clinical assessment I imagine he uses on constituents who try to lie to him. "When did you last have a real meal?"

"You're being a nerd. I had dinner last night. And lunch a few hours ago."