The article dropped on a Tuesday morning.
Sophie was mid–budget review when her email pinged with a link.
> **The Fixers: Inside the High-Stakes World of Behind-the-Scenes Power Players** > by Jordan Blake
Her name appeared in the subhead.
She swallowed.
Miranda appeared in her doorway a minute later, phone in hand, grin wide.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Not even a little,” Sophie said.
“Too bad,” Miranda replied. “It’s out.”
They read together on Sophie’s screen.
The piece was glossy, smart, and… surprisingly nuanced.
Jordan had profiled three people: a political advance director, a crisis PR specialist, and Sophie.
> “…If you attended the Cross summit, you might have come away talking about the storm, the house, the host. But if you looked closer, you’d have seen something else: a woman in black with a clipboard and a calm voice, moving through the chaos like she’d choreographed it. > > > ‘Events are about feelings,’ Sophie Turner says. ‘People think they’re about flowers and lighting. Those matter. But what they remember is how they felt. Safe. Seen. Ignored. Overwhelmed. My job is to build spaces where the feeling matches the intention.’ > > > Turner, now a partner at Denver-based Aurora Events, grew up in a Midwest suburb where storms were a seasonal ritual. ‘We’d sit in the hallway during tornado warnings, my dad cracking jokes to keep us calm,’ she recalls. ‘I learned early that fear doesn’t go away just because you say “it’s fine.” It goes away when someone you trust tells you the truth and has a plan.’ > > > That philosophy guided her through the now-infamous blizzard at Elk Ridge, Nathan Cross’s mountain estate, where a three-day summit nearly became a four-day lockdown when a generator faltered. > > > ‘We had to decide, in real time, whether to let guests travel up or keep them in town,’ she says. ‘Safety first, always. But there were contracts, egos, a very expensive chef already halfway through prepping dinner. It was like spinning plates in a wind tunnel.’ > > > Cross, known for his reclusiveness, was, by multiple accounts, uneasy in the storm. Turner doesn’t frame it as diva behavior. > > > ‘He has a history with storms,’ she says simply. ‘My job wasn’t to “handle” him. It was to build a structure where he could do what he needed to do—host, talk, be visible—without regressing. That meant clear schedules, backup plans, honesty. You don’t lie to people when the lights flicker. You tell them, “Here’s what’s happening. Here’s what we’re doing. Here’s what you can do.” People can handle truth better than vagueness.’ > > > Turner now consults with Cross beyond events, helping him, in her words, “put bones in his days.”…”
Sophie groaned.
“I sound like a cult leader,” she said. “Bones in days.”
“You sound like someone who knows what she’s talking about,” Miranda said firmly.
Jordan had been discreet.
They’d mentioned the consulting, but not in lurid terms.
> “…In a world that commodifies genius and chews up talent, the presence of someone like Turner—a boundary-drawing, schedule-enforcing, emotionally literate fixer—feels less like luxury and more like necessity. > > > ‘I’m not his therapist,’ she emphasizes. ‘I don’t tell him *why* he feels what he feels. I just help make sure he has space to feel it without burning everything down.’ > > > Cross, for his part, declined to be interviewed for this piece, but his assistant, Howard King, says, ‘I sleep easier knowing Sophie is in the mix.’…”
Sophie’s eyes stung.
“They quoted Howard,” she said.
“He’s a star,” Miranda said. “I’d hire him in a second.”
“You can’t have him,” Sophie said. “He’s taken.”
The rest of the piece zoomed out to talk about the emotional labor of fixers, the toll it took, the blurry lines between personal and professional.
They even touched on boundaries.
> “Turner acknowledges the risks of becoming enmeshed in a client’s life. > > > ‘You have to be clear about what you are and aren’t,’ she says. ‘I’m not a friend, though it can feel like that sometimes. I’m not a mother. I’m not a gatekeeper. I’m… a bridge. I help people cross from one state to another. But I don’t stay there with them forever. I have to go home at the end of the night and be a person who isn’t holding everyone else’s stuff.’ > > > Does she succeed? She laughs. ‘I’m working on it.’…”
Miranda exhaled.
“That’s it,” she said softly. “That’s the brand.”
“Which part?” Sophie asked, dazed.
“The part where you acknowledge the mess,” Miranda said. “And do it anyway.”
Her phone buzzed nonstop.
Clients.
Friends.
Her mother: *Saw your face in a magazine at the grocery store! You looked stern! So proud! Also, are you eating enough?*
Lia: BITCH YOU’RE FAMOUS.
Lia: I’m going to start telling my patients “I know the woman who calendars Nathan Cross’s bowel movements.”
Sophie: I do NOT calendar his bowel movements.
Lia: Yet.
And, inevitably:
NATHAN: “I’m not his therapist.” NATHAN: Lies. NATHAN: You therapize me with spreadsheets.
SOPHIE: Therapize is not a word. SOPHIE: But accurate.
NATHAN: You sounded… good. NATHAN: Human. NATHAN: Not a demon. NATHAN: Disappointing, really.
SOPHIE: I have layers. SOPHIE: Like an onion. SOPHIE: Or an ogre.
NATHAN: You’re quoting *Shrek* at me. NATHAN: I regret giving you Wi-Fi.
Her laugh was shaky.
A second bubble popped up.
NATHAN: Also. NATHAN: “Bones in my days.” NATHAN: Thank you. NATHAN: For those.
A wave of emotion crashed over her so suddenly she had to sit down.
She hadn’t realized how much she’d poured into him.
How much of herself she’d snuck into his scaffolding.
How much he’d noticed.
She typed, fingers trembling.
SOPHIE: You’re the one doing the work. SOPHIE: I’m just the annoying voice in the corner saying “drink water” and “stop doomscrolling.”
NATHAN: Most annoying voice is usually my own. NATHAN: It’s nice to have competition.
She wiped her eyes.
She had clients to email. A staff meeting in an hour. A venue walk-through that afternoon.
Her life was… fuller.
Her calendar was a grid of color-coded obligations.
Her phone was a thread of gray and blue messages that made her heart race.
The fault lines were showing.
One wrong step, and everything could crack.
She knew that.
And yet.
Every time she saw his name light up her phone, every time she watched his face flicker on her screen, every time she caught herself thinking “I want to tell Nathan this” when something interesting happened, she stepped a little further out.
Onto thinner and thinner ice.
The question wasn’t *if* it would crack.
It was when.
And whether, when it did, they could both swim.
***
The crack came from a direction she didn’t expect.
It wasn’t a scandal.
It wasn’t a fight.
It was a favor request.
“Hey,” Lia said one night, calling between shifts. “You know that charity gala Aurora’s doing next month? The one for the hospital foundation?”
“Yeah,” Sophie said, flipping through her planner. “The ‘Healing Hearts’ thing. We’re building a twelve-foot heart out of LED lights. Why?”
“Because rumor in the ER is that Nathan Cross donated a disgustingly large amount to our pediatric wing,” Lia said. “Anonymously, but the gossip spreadsheets don’t lie. And the foundation board wants to ‘honor him’ at the gala. Surprise. As in, drag him on stage and make him say something.”
Sophie sat up straighter.
“He’ll hate that,” she said.
“No shit,” Lia said. “I mentioned—very casually—that I *might* know someone who can… mitigate the damage. I didn’t say your name. But the board chair recognized you from the article. He wants to ‘loop you in.’”
Sophie rubbed her forehead.
“So they want me to convince him to show up to a public event he didn’t ask for, on behalf of a donation he made anonymously,” she summarized. “And not murder anyone.”
“That’s the gist,” Lia said. “In their defense, the money is installing three new MRI machines. They’re jazzed.”
Sophie exhaled slowly.
It was… a good cause.
It was *Lia’s* cause.
It was also a potential grenade.
“How much time do we have?” she asked.
“Gala’s in three weeks,” Lia said. “Board meeting on Friday. They want an answer by then so they can name him in the program. Or not.”
“Okay,” Sophie said. “I’ll talk to him.”
“You don’t have to,” Lia said quickly. “I don’t want to drag you into hospital politics. I just—”
“You didn’t drag me,” Sophie cut in. “You… opened a door. I’ll see if he wants to walk through it.”
Lia was quiet for a beat.
“You’re too good,” she said.
“Lie,” Sophie said. “I’m nosy. And I like watching him squirm.”
Lia snorted.
They hung up.
Sophie stared at her phone for a full minute.
Then she texted him.
SOPHIE: Weird question. SOPHIE: Have you done anything anonymously generous for a children’s hospital lately?
The reply came faster than she’d expected.
NATHAN: That sounds like entrapment. NATHAN: Define “anything.”
She rolled her eyes.
SOPHIE: Large donation. Pediatric wing. New machines. SOPHIE: I’m not mad. I just want confirmation before I yell at some board members.
There was a pause.
NATHAN: I told Howard to transfer some money. NATHAN: For “something useful.” NATHAN: I didn’t ask what. NATHAN: Why?
Her chest squeezed.
Of course.
Of course he’d throw money at something and not take credit.
SOPHIE: Because the hospital foundation wants to honor you at their gala. SOPHIE: On stage. Microphone. Big screen. SOPHIE: Surprise.
Her phone stayed stubbornly silent for a full minute.
Then:
NATHAN: Absolutely not. NATHAN: No. NATHAN: Tell them to honor the machines. Or the kids. Or literally anyone else. NATHAN: I didn’t do it for a plaque.
She expected that.
SOPHIE: I know. SOPHIE: And I told Lia you’d say that. SOPHIE: But. SOPHIE: Hear me out.
NATHAN: I hate those words. NATHAN: They always precede something awful.
She took a breath.
SOPHIE: The gala raises a lot of money. SOPHIE: Having your name on the program sells tickets. SOPHIE: Unfair but true. SOPHIE: It’s not about you wanting attention. SOPHIE: It’s about leveraging your existing attention for something that matters. SOPHIE: If that makes sense.
NATHAN: Unfortunately.
SOPHIE: We can control the way it happens. SOPHIE: No surprise. No dragging. SOPHIE: If you say yes, we build it on your terms. SOPHIE: Short. Honest. No bullshit. SOPHIE: You can literally say “I hate being up here” into the mic. People will love it.
He didn’t answer right away.
She could picture him, pacing his glass hallway, phone in hand, scowling.
Minutes ticked by.
Finally:
NATHAN: You’re asking me to put myself on a stage. NATHAN: In front of strangers. NATHAN: To receive gratitude I didn’t ask for. NATHAN: For something I did because I couldn’t *not*. NATHAN: Do you know what that feels like?
She closed her eyes.
“I know,” she whispered aloud.
Then typed:
SOPHIE: Exposed. SOPHIE: Vulnerable. SOPHIE: Like the roof might cave in.
NATHAN: Yes.
SOPHIE: I’m not going to pretend it won’t be uncomfortable. SOPHIE: It will. SOPHIE: But I also know you stand in storms for three days so other people can talk about fiction. SOPHIE: This is fifteen minutes. SOPHIE: For kids in hospital beds.
Silence.
She bit her lip.
Maybe she was pushing too hard.
Maybe this was the line.
Another bubble appeared.
NATHAN: Are you going to be there?
Her heart thudded.
SOPHIE: Yes. SOPHIE: I’m planning the stupid thing.
NATHAN: Are you going to make sure the roof doesn’t cave in?
She stared.
Her throat tightened.
SOPHIE: Yes. SOPHIE: I promise.
A long pause.
Then:
NATHAN: Fine. NATHAN: 10 minutes. NATHAN: No more. NATHAN: You stand next to the stage. NATHAN: If it gets weird, you throw a drink in someone’s face.
She laughed, tears pricking.
SOPHIE: Deal. SOPHIE: I’ll make sure it’s red wine. More dramatic.
NATHAN: Devil. NATHAN: Tell Lia I expect a private tour of the MRI machines.
Her heart ached in a good way.
SOPHIE: She’ll cry. SOPHIE: I might too.
NATHAN: Gross. NATHAN: Don’t be sentimental on my behalf.
SOPHIE: Too late.
She leaned back in her chair, exhaling.
Fault lines.
Sometimes they cracked in ways that led to collapse.
Sometimes they opened into something else.
A chance to reroute.
To build new scaffolding.
To stand on a stage, under lights, in front of strangers—and not be alone.
She had three weeks.
To design a gala that wouldn’t terrify him.
To protect him and push him at the same time.
To stand by a stage and keep her promise.
No roofs caving in.
Not on her watch.
Not this time.