I should delete it. I should respond with a professional but firm email declining the opportunity and reiterating my need for independence.
Instead, I open the message.
Ms. Lin,
Horde Tech Software is seeking an experienced event planner for our annual shareholder gala, scheduled for six weeks from today. The event will host approximately 300 attendees, including investors, board members, and executive leadership from multiple tech sector companies.
We require a planner capable of managing high-profile clients, coordinating complex logistics, and maintaining absolute professionalism under pressure. Your name was recommended by our Head of HR, who was impressed by your organizational skills during our recent corporate retreat.
Please submit a formal proposal outlining your approach, estimated budget, and relevant experience by end of business Friday.
This is a blind RFP process. Three event planning firms have been invited to submit proposals, and the contract will be awarded based solely on merit and proposed execution plan.
Regards,
Joffrey Kranik
Chief Operating Officer
Horde Tech Software
I read it twice, then a third time, parsing every word for hidden meaning or special treatment.
It's completely professional. Completely standard. There's no mention of Thrall, no personal notes or inside references to what happened between us. Just a straightforward RFP from a company I already have direct experience with, sent by someone who isn't the CEO himself.
And it's a blind process. Three firms competing on equal ground.
This isn't a handout. This is an opportunity to prove myself against actual competition, to win a contract based on my skills and proposal rather than any personal connection or corporate favor.
My hands shake slightly as I create a new folder on my desktop and title itHorde Tech Shareholder Gala.I pull up my notes from the wellness retreat, reviewing every detail I learned about the company culture, the executive team dynamics, the specific preferences and expectations of their leadership.
I know this client. I know exactly what they need, what will impress them, what will make their event memorable and successful.
And I'm going to build them a proposal that's so thorough, so perfectly executed, that they have no choice but to choose me.
Not because of Thrall. Not because of what happened between us.
Because I'm the best person for the job.
I pour myself another cup of terrible instant coffee, crack my knuckles, and get to work.
CHAPTER 12
THRALL
Istand outside Romee's apartment building for a full three minutes, staring at the cracked concrete steps and peeling paint on the security door, trying to convince myself this is a terrible idea.
It doesn't work.
I've tried everything else. Professional distance. Giving her space. Respecting her very clearly stated boundaries about not wanting my interference or my money or my high-handed Orc protection.
Absolute radio silence while I monitored her new business launch from afar like some kind of obsessive stalker, resisting the urge to send clients her way or anonymously fund her startup costs or show up at her door demanding she let me fix everything.
And then Joffrey sent out the RFP emails yesterday, and I've been a complete wreck ever since, checking my phone every thirty seconds to see if she responded, if she submitted a proposal, if she told us to go to hell.
She submitted at 4:47 this morning.
I read her proposal six times before my morning coffee finished brewing. It's perfect. Thorough, creative, exactlycalibrated to our company culture and shareholder expectations. She anticipated problems I haven't even thought of yet and built contingency plans for scenarios that would make most event planners collapse into nervous breakdowns.
