“Yes, sir.”
I find Franklin in the main kitchen, overseeing the preparation of what will likely be tonight’s dinner. He straightens when I enter, a question in his eyes but not on his lips. Franklin never asks unless asked first.
“I need two things handled,” I tell him without preamble.
“Certainly, sir.”
“First, contact Davis and have him RSVP yes to the foundation gala. Two attendees.”
If my head of household is surprised by this instruction after six years of declining the same invitation, he doesn’t show it.
“Of course, sir. And the second matter?”
I hesitate. I haven’t bought clothing for a woman since... ever.
“I need a wardrobe delivered for Ms. Vance,” I say, the words clipped and professional. “Appropriate attire for the office, casual wear, and formal options for the gala. Everything in her size.” I pause. “Include the green silk gown from Valentino’s recent collection. The one that matched her eyes in the advertisement.”
Franklin doesn’t blink at the fact that I’ve apparently been keeping track of dresses that match Nola’s eyes.
“Any particular delivery location, sir?”
“Her room. Have it arranged this evening while we’re at dinner.”
“Very good, sir. Anything else?”
I shake my head, already turning to leave. Then stop.
“Make sure there are shoes. And... whatever else women need.” The thought of Nola’s undergarments brings heat to myface, ridiculous as that is given the intimacies we’ve already shared. “Have a personal shopper handle the details.”
“Of course, sir.”
I leave Franklin to his tasks, knowing they’ll be executed with perfect efficiency.
The gala. I’m actually going to do this.
Going to walk into a room full of donors and board members and society photographers, with my scarred face on display. Going to stand in front of people who will know, or at least strongly suspect, exactly why I started the foundation.
For years, I’ve funded the foundation anonymously, signing checks but never showing my face.
And now, for her, I’m tearing it all down.
Dinner is a quiet affair,just the two of us at the small table in my private dining room. Franklin serves us himself, disappearing between courses with silent efficiency. I barely taste the food. My mind is too full of what’s coming.
I wait until we’re midway through the main course before setting down my fork with deliberate care.
“We’ll be attending the foundation gala,” I say simply, watching her face.
For a moment, she freezes, fork halfway to her mouth. Then her eyes widen, emotions flickering across her face so quickly I can barely track them. Surprise. Confusion. Understanding.
And then something that makes my chest tighten. Pure, unfiltered joy that she tries to contain but can’t quite manage.
“The foundation,” she repeats, setting down her fork. “Your foundation.”
I nod once. “Yes.”
“When?” she asks, voice soft.
“Next Saturday at the Branford Hotel in New York.” I pick up my fork again, needing something to do with my hands. “We’ll fly down that morning and return Sunday.”
