At 5:15 p.m., the room is unrecognizable. Amber lighting washes the limestone walls in a warm, honeyed glow. Tables are arranged in neat rows. The band sound-checks a soft jazz number. The air smells of expensive flowers and expectation.
Ivy stands in the center of the dance floor, hands on her hips, surveying the room like a soldier inspecting a secured perimeter. She's sweating. Her hair has slipped loose from the pencil. There's a faint smudge of dust on her nose.
I approach from behind with two bottles of water and press one gently against her arm.
She startles, then relaxes when she sees me. She takes the bottle and drinks deeply, then forces herself to slow.
"Careful," I say, echoing her words from the hospital. "Don't chug."
She lowers the bottle and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "Did the AV team fix the mic?"
"Yes. No duct tape."
"Good." She exhales, scanning the room. "We pulled it off."
"You pulled it off," I correct. "I mostly pointed at people and made them nervous."
She turns to face me. Her gaze drops to my navy sweater, the sleeves pushed down now, my collar open, the unmistakable fatigue on my face.
"You take direction well," she says. "For a CEO."
"I have many underappreciated talents."
We stand there, the moment stretching, warm with shared effort.
"You should change," I say quietly. "Guests arrive in forty-five minutes."
Her eyes drop to herself. My shirt. The shorts. Her bare feet.
"Oh god," she says. "I look like a frat boy."
"You look?—"
I stop. I was going to say competent. Impressive. Effective.
But looking at her now, flushed with victory, unguarded in the middle of all this carefully curated perfection, the truth lands before I can intercept it.
"You look beautiful," I say.
The words sit between us, unplanned and volatile. Ivy freezes. Her breath hitches. She studies my face, searching for irony, for a tell. She doesn't find one. Color rises in her cheeks.
"Protecting the investment," she murmurs, more to herself than to me. "Maintain asset integrity."
"Right," I say, stepping back, because if I don't, I'm going to do something reckless, like brush the dust from her nose or kiss her.
"Protecting the investment."
"I have to go," she says, suddenly breathless. "I need to shower. I need to be the fiancée."
She turns and heads for the service exit, her bare feet soft against the parquet floor. I watch her disappear. I don't care about the deal. I don't care about the board.
I want to know what she's going to wear tonight.
At 6:00 PM, the doors open. At 6:30 PM, the room is full.
The event is a success. The amber lighting does exactly what Ivy promised. Everyone looks tan, rich, and impossibly pleased with themselves. Diamonds catch and throw light. The room glows.
I stand near the bar, nursing a scotch, scanning the room for threats.
