Chapter twelve
Tessa
Iarrive forty minutes early, heels clicking across the marble atrium in a rhythm that sounds purposeful even when I am not entirely convinced I am. The caterers are still lining up champagne flutes in long, gleaming rows, crystal tapping crystal in a sound that feels oddly ceremonial. I pull out my tablet before I have even reached my position, the ERS dashboard already glowing with George’s color-coded dots, three couples mapped across the floor plan like elegant little crises waiting to be managed.
The museum smells like old paint and fresh money, which feels exactly right for an afternoon built on polished surfaces and carefully managed impressions. I straighten the earpiece I had told myself I would not need, the one I argued was excessive, the one I am now extremely and privately grateful to have.
My phone buzzes and I check it before I can stop myself, already hoping it's George, which is exactly the problem.
It is the caterer confirming the gluten-free option. I look at the message a second too long, disappointed.
Marissa’s voice comes through the earpiece a second later, sounding like she's already managing three things at once. “Press presence is light. Good for control. I'll let you know if I need to adjust it.” She doesn’t wait for acknowledgment. Marissa handles PR for ERS the way George handles data—precisely, relentlessly, and with quiet confidence.
The ERS app pings. George. My heart does this little jump. I tamp it down. This is work. It is expected.
Analytics live. Sentiment baseline logged. You're cleared to begin.
I type backHello to you tooand immediately regret that I hit send. I pocket the phone like that might help.
***
My first couple arrives at twelve past the hour. Camden Drake walks in wearing a suit that costs more than my rent and carries himself well, and Lila Hart is half a step behind him—not quite beside, just slightly staged, like she's already blocked the entrance in her head.
I guide them through the flow with my most professional smile, pointing out the photographer positions I've mapped along the east wall, and generally trying to put them at ease.
Lila squeezes my arm as we walk and says, low and warm, "You're the one keeping us from embarrassing ourselves today, aren't you." It isn't really a question. I smile at her.
Arthur Dupree arrives next, wearing an expression of mild, well-bred horror at the room around him, which somehow makes him more likable than his Forbes profile had suggested.
Beside him, Lindsay Smith walks in with a rhinestone purse the size of a small dog and jeans and a grin that says she has absolutely no idea what she's walked into.
I watch Arthur glance at her and look quickly away, and I recognize that move because I've been doing it all week in the direction of George.
Seamus O'Malley and Rosanna Lopez come in last, and they are the quietest of the couples today. Rosanna has a small sketchbook tucked under her arm, same as she'd had at the wedding. I'm not sure why.
George texts:All six assets in venue. Tracking initiated.
I type backThey're people, Georgeand watch the three dots appear and disappear. Twice. Then:Noted. All sixpeoplein venue.
Something warm moves through my chest that I have no interest in examining. I press my lips together and look back at the floor plan.
***
The room fills quickly and I position myself at the east corridor where I can hold all three couples in my sightline at once. It feels like air traffic control over a very glamorous potential disaster.
Camden leans toward Lila and says something I can't hear, and she laughs genuinely. It's not for the cameras. I can tell by the way her chin drops, and her eyes crease.
I catch myself watching them half a beat too long.
My analytics feed pings almost instantly. George, from his office across the city, seeing something through a screen, through numbers, through data.
I wonder what he sees that I don't.
Then I wonder what I see that he doesn't, and I make myself stop.
The noise level jumps before I've fully processed why—a cluster of fans near the sculpture installation, voices pitching up fast enough that I feel it in my sternum. I'm already moving,cutting through the crowd with my tablet held out like a shield, before I've made a conscious decision to go.
Camden looks at Lila. She gives him the smallest nod, barely a tilt of her chin, and then he kisses her in a way that clears a six-foot radius through sheer force of spectacle.
