"Formal. Ashford's home. Eight people."
"Eight? That's intimate."
"He prefers smaller gatherings for business decisions. Says he can read people better at a dinner table than in a boardroom."
"Smart man." She chewed her lower lip—a nervous tic I'd cataloged early and never stopped noticing. "His wife will be there?"
“Eleanor. Yes."
"And the other guests?"
"Associates. Ashford's inner circle. Graham's bringing a date, which is a miracle in itself." I traced a circle on her knee. "It'll be fine. You've done this before."
"The gala was a hundred people. This is eight. That's less camouflage."
"You don't need camouflage. You need to be yourself."
"Again with the worst advice in history."
"Again with it being the only advice I have."
She settled back against the couch. Her legs returned to my lap. My hand found her knee again—the circuit restored, the contact re-established. We watched the documentary and didn't talk about the dinner or the contract or the fact that landing the Riverside deal meant the original reason for our arrangement had just been fulfilled.
We didn't talk about what that meant for us.
We didn't talk about what she was hiding.
We didn't talk about the building on Elm Street or the drawings in the cardboard tube or the future I was constructing in secret while the present sat right here on my couch, warm and complicated and not quite fine.
I held her knee. She leaned into me. And we let the silence carry everything we weren't saying, which was,by my estimate, enough to stress-test a suspension bridge.
Friday. Four days.
I had a career milestone to celebrate, a dinner to survive, and a woman beside me who was keeping secrets.
Fair enough. I was keeping a few of my own.
seventeen
WILLOW
The dress was black. Simple. A little dangerous.
Mika had picked it out during a lunch-hour raid on Nordstrom's sale rack—a fitted midi with a square neckline and a slit that stopped just above my knee. No sequins, no drama. A dress that said I belong here without trying to prove it.
I stood in Callum's bathroom, turning in the mirror, and tried to recognize the woman staring back. She looked older than twenty-three. More settled. Her hair was up tonight—a low twist that Mika had coached me through via FaceTime, swearing at me when I stabbed myself with a bobby pin for the third time.
"You look like you're going to a funeral," Itold my reflection.
"You look incredible," Callum said from the doorway.
I hadn't heard him come in. He leaned against the frame in his dark suit—not a tuxedo tonight, just a beautifully cut charcoal number with a black shirt underneath, open at the collar. No tie. It was the most relaxed I'd ever seen him dress for an event, and somehow that made him more devastating, not less.
"No tie?" I asked.
"Ashford said the dress code was 'elevated casual.' I'm choosing to interpret that liberally."
"You look good."
