I stand there as they close behind him. People in scrubs and civilian clothes move past me in both directions, the ordinary rhythm of a shift change carrying on around me like I’m not even there.
I look down at the envelope in my hand, turn it over once. My name is handwritten on the front.
I turn toward my truck. The cold Seattle air doesn’t bite quite as hard anymore. Heat spreads through my chest and under my skin instead, warming me from the inside. The weight that’s been sitting on my shoulders for months finally shifts just enough to let me walk a little taller.
48
Lance
“What do you mean you can’t make it?”
I’m trapped in the valet line, engine purring, phone welded to my ear while Marcus drops the kind of bomb that makes me want to reverse over the velvet ropes.
“Douglas Jefferson filed an emergency injunction at four,” he says, calm as a fucking monk. “Mercer Biotech’s in the middle of a federal review. If I don’t get a response brief filed by tomorrow morning, we lose the window.”
“Marcus, don’t do this to me.”
“I’ve had three associates on back-to-back calls. The client is losing his mind, which, honestly, is fair considering—”
“You RSVP’d, Marcus. You wrote the fucking speech. You’ve attended every fancy cocktail gala for fucking rich people for the last ten years while I was rotting away in San Diego. Tonight’s the one night I show up and ironed a shirt—”
Somewhere behind me, a horn gives an impatient beep. I drive forward.
“You ironed a shirt?” he asks, like that’s the most important bit.
“Yes, with an actual fucking iron. Dug it out of a closet, burned my hand twice, and now I smell like scorched fabric. The least you can do is showup—”
“The speech is coming through now.”
My phone buzzes hard against my jaw once.
“You’ll be fine,” he says.
“I will absolutely not—”
“Lance.” Marcus’s voice drops into that big-brother register he uses when he’s already decided how something is going to go. “You’re the best person I know. You can do anything. You’ll be fine.”
He hangs up.
I let out a groan that fogs the windshield for half a second. The line creeps forward. Night air slips through the cracked window, thick with perfume, cigar smoke, and the low chatter of people who actually want to be here. My thumb is still throbbing from the iron.
“God fucking damn it.”
By the time the valet kid in the ridiculous red jacket reaches my door, I slap the keys into his hand without looking. I read Marcus’s texts for the speech. I’ve already half-memorized the damn things out of pure dread. Now I just have to pray I can stand up there and deliver them without sounding like a sweaty con artist who’s about to get booed off the stage.
The Beaumont Theatre, six-story brick and limestone landmark, has loomed over this stretch of downtown Seattle like old money since 1923. It spent eleven years as a very expensive eyesore before some heiress with forty million dollars and a ferocious passion for architectural preservation decided to make it her legacy project. Four years of meticulous restoration later, the building looks exactly as it did a century ago. The difference is that the plumbing works, the roof no longer leaks, and nobody has to worry about violating modern fire codes.
Tonight, the Pacific Crest Foundation has decked the grand entrance in their signature deep green. Two towering banners ripple in the evening breeze, a photographer clicks away at thebottom of the wide marble steps, and guests move through the arrival ritual with practiced boredom. Out of the town car, up the steps, name murmured at the door, heavy program slipped into hand, then inside. They’ve done this so many times the ceremony of it has gone invisible.
I do it all anyway, straightening my cuffs, and heading for the entrance before I can change my mind. The black wool suit feels slightly too sharp on my shoulders. My tie is a deep charcoal, knotted tighter than I’d like, and my shoes are polished enough to reflect the outdoor lights. The evening air is cool against the back of my neck. The doors open before I reach them.
I walk in.
The ceiling is the first thing that hits me. It’s gilded as fuck and original. Thirty feet up and shining like it’s never seen a single day of neglect. A row of massive chandeliers runs the full length, dimmed just enough to make every face in the room look expensive and well-rested. The old orchestra seats have been cleared out for the night, swapped for cocktail-reception mode with clusters of high-top tables draped in crisp white linen, over-the-top floral centerpieces. Waiters gliding through like ghosts with silver trays. A string quartet saws away softly in the left corner of the stage.
Center stage sits a sleek podium with the Pacific Crest Foundation seal gleaming under the lights. Two rows of chairs wait stage right—one of them apparently mine.
I snag a glass of champagne from a passing tray before I’ve even fully stepped inside. The flute is freezing against my fingers.
