The email from the hospital foundation hit her inbox at 7:02 a.m. the next morning.
> Sophie, > > We are *thrilled* to hear that Mr. Cross is willing to be recognized at our gala. This will make an enormous difference in fundraising. > > We’ll follow your lead on how to structure the moment. Brief remarks are fine—ten minutes, as discussed. > > Our board chair, Dr. Kravitz, would love to meet with you in person to discuss flow. Are you available tomorrow at 3 p.m.? > > With appreciation, > > Karen Hall > Executive Director, Mile High Children’s Foundation
Sophie read it twice, coffee forgotten in her hand.
Thrilled.
Enormous difference.
Ten minutes.
Her gaze slid to the small, black rectangle on the corner of her desk—the key card he’d given her—and then to the corner of her screen, where the messaging app icon glowed with a new notification.
NATHAN: The things I do for children. NATHAN: You owe me.
She smiled despite the weight already forming between her shoulder blades.
SOPHIE: I bought you an extra five minutes with your therapist just for this conversation. SOPHIE: That’s worth at least three hospital galas.
NATHAN: Lies. NATHAN: What do I have to wear?
She set the mug down, fingers already typing.
SOPHIE: A suit. That fits. SOPHIE: And shoes that don’t look like you stole them from your college roommate.
NATHAN: You’re describing my entire wardrobe.
SOPHIE: Howard has taste. He’ll help. SOPHIE: We’ll do a run-through a few days before. I’ll walk you through the room, the stage, the exits. SOPHIE: You’ll know exactly where everything is. No surprises.
There was a pause.
NATHAN: “Exits.” NATHAN: You really do get it.
SOPHIE: I do. SOPHIE: And you’ll have one. More than one, actually. SOPHIE: But I don’t think you’ll need them.
Three dots appeared, disappeared.
NATHAN: Optimist. NATHAN: Fine. NATHAN: Tell me where and when and I’ll show up and ruin everyone’s evening with my presence.
SOPHIE: I’ll send details. SOPHIE: Try not to commit any new crimes in the meantime.
NATHAN: No promises.
***
By Thursday, the gala lived in her head.
The foundation booked the ballroom at the Four Seasons downtown—a cavernous space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, a ceiling studded with crystal fixtures, and acoustics that made unamplified conversations echo.
“This is a terrible room for someone with a storm phobia,” she muttered under her breath as she stood in the middle of it with the hotel’s event manager and Karen Hall.
“What’s that?” Karen asked.
“Nothing,” Sophie said. “We’ll need dampening drapes over those west windows and carpeted runners on the perimeter. It’ll help with sound and make the space feel less… cavernous.”
“Of course,” the manager said, scribbling notes.
Karen was in her fifties, stylish in a navy wrap dress and bright red glasses, her silver hair cut short and spiky. She exuded warmth edged with steel—the kind of person you trusted instantly but also did not want to disappoint.
“The kids are going to lose their minds when they hear he’s behind the new MRIs,” Karen said, clasping her hands. “They’ve been having bake sales and lemonade stands for months.”
“You’re not telling them beforehand?” Sophie asked.
“Only the older ones,” Karen said. “The younger kids will just think a nice man gave them a bigger donut machine.”
Sophie smiled, tension easing just a fraction.
“What’s the program now that we’ve added his segment?” she asked, glancing at her clipboard.
Karen passed over a draft:
– 6:00–7:00: Cocktail reception – 7:00–7:15: Welcome from board chair – 7:15–7:30: Patient family video – 7:30–8:15: Dinner – 8:15–8:25: Recognition of major donors – 8:25–8:35: Honoring Nathan Cross – 8:35–8:45: His remarks – 8:45–9:30: Auction – 9:30–10:00: Dessert & mingling
“You’re keeping him away from the auction,” Sophie said. “Smart.”
“He scares people,” Karen said with a grin. “Auction paddles drop when he glares.”
“You’ve had him at an event before?” Sophie asked, surprised.
Karen shook her head. “No, but I’ve watched interviews. He has Death Glare Face. It’s useful in fiction. Less so when you’re begging people to pony up for a new neonatal wing.”
Death Glare Face, Sophie thought. *That* she knew.
She walked the room again, mapping.
Entrance here. Bars there. Stage against the far wall, with a short set of stairs stage left. A slightly raised platform, maybe two feet high. Not so high that it would feel precarious. Not so low that the back tables couldn’t see.
She could already see it: chairs angled just so, floral arrangements low enough not to block sightlines, a subtle spotlight on the podium that wouldn’t blind him.
She drew a little box on her plan: S. That was where she’d stand.
Close enough to see his eyes. Close enough to catch him if his knees buckled.
She’d never thought she’d be designing event flow around one person’s childhood trauma.
But here she was.
“Do you think he’ll… say something?” Karen asked, almost shyly. “About why he did it?”
Sophie thought of the first time he’d told her about Ethan. Of the way his voice had gone flat, as if he were reading from someone else’s transcript just to get it out.
“I think he might,” she said. “If we keep it short. And real. He hates platitudes.”
“Good,” Karen said. “So do I.”
They spent an hour hashing out details.
When Sophie left, her brain buzzed.
She drove back to the office on autopilot, the Denver skyline ghosting past her windshield.
Her phone buzzed as she was pulling into Aurora’s parking garage.
NATHAN: How bad is it?
She smiled faintly.
SOPHIE: Ballroom. SOPHIE: 300 people. SOPHIE: Mirrors. Chandeliers. No blizzards. SOPHIE: I’ll be there. SOPHIE: You’ll hate it. SOPHIE: But only a little.
NATHAN: You have a twisted definition of “comforting.” NATHAN: When do I get my field trip?
***
The field trip happened the following Tuesday.
He insisted on coming by himself.
“You do not need to send a security convoy,” he’d texted. “I can drive a car. I’ve been doing it for decades.”
She’d replied with a photo of a cartoon mountain lion gripping a steering wheel, tongue lolling.
He’d sent back the middle-finger emoji.
She got to the hotel twenty minutes early, as always, and checked the room. The hotel staff had left it mostly bare, round tables stacked at the back.
The space felt bigger empty.
She stood at the center of where the stage would be and breathed.
In two weeks, this floor would vibrate under heels and clapping hands.
Tonight, it was just polished wood and her echoing footsteps.
“Looks like a place where CEOs come to reenact *The Hunger Games*,” a familiar voice drawled behind her.
She turned.
Nathan stood just inside the ballroom doors, sleeves of his black button-down rolled, dark jeans, boots. He’d left the armor of a coat somewhere; he looked… oddly casual.
He also looked slightly tighter around the eyes than usual.
“You found it,” she said.
“The GPS tried to send me to a parking structure in Kansas,” he said. “But yes. How very glassy.”
The Four Seasons’ lobby was all marble and glass and brushed steel. The ballroom, though, had warmer bones.
“It’s not Elk Ridge,” she said.
“Nothing’s Elk Ridge,” he said, voice unreadable.
She gestured. “Come on. Let’s walk.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets and followed.
They entered through the same doors guests would use, the heavy wood swinging silently.
“Entrance,” she said. “You’ll actually come in through the service hallway and wait backstage, so you don’t have to walk through the crowd. But this is where they’ll see the room first.”
He scanned, eyes moving in fast, sharp arcs. Ceiling. Walls. Corners.
“Windows,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “But draped. And no storm.”
“You can’t promise that,” he said.
“I can promise no blizzard-in-the-dark-on-top-of-a-mountain,” she said. “Worst case, we get a light dusting and everyone squeals about how ‘magical’ it is.”
He made a face.
“Let’s do staging,” she said, leading him forward.
They stopped in front of the blank wall where the stage riser would be.
“It’ll be about here,” she said, standing on an imaginary line. “Two steps up. Podium left. You and the board chair right.”
He stopped exactly where she had.
“Look out,” she said. “Tell me what you see.”
He obliged.
“Tables,” he said. “Too many chairs. Strangers. Exit signs. Bar. Chandeliers that look like they want to fall on my head.”
She hid a smile.
“You sound like you’re writing a scene,” she said.
“I am,” he said. “It’s called ‘Man Dies of Anxiety While Trying to Accept Compliments.’”
“We’re not letting you die,” she said, matter-of-fact. “That would ruin the vibe.”
He snorted.
She pointed out the exits. One set of double doors at the back. One side door near the bar. Service corridors behind the stage and to the right.
“You’ll be backstage there,” she said, gesturing to the right. “You’ll hear Karen call your name. You walk up these steps.” She mimed. “She says a few nice things about you. People clap. You say ‘thank you, I hate attention,’ everybody laughs, you talk for seven minutes, and then you get to escape.”
“Seven,” he repeated.
“Not ten,” she said. “I negotiated her down. I told her you were like a soufflé—we want to take you out of the oven before you collapse.”
He made a strangled sound.
“You did not,” he said.
“I did,” she said proudly. “She laughed for a full minute. The hotel manager looked terrified.”
He studied her for a second.
“You’re good at this,” he said.
“Stop saying that like it surprises you,” she said.
He lifted one shoulder.
“Walk me backstage,” he said.
She led him around the edges, through the side door, into the service hallway. Fluorescent lights hummed, the industrial carpet muffling their steps. A catering cart stood against one wall, laden with gleaming cutlery.
He made a face. “I hate behind-the-scenes,” he muttered.
“You *live* behind-the-scenes,” she said.
“In my head,” he said. “Actual hallways smell like dish soap and despair.”
“Stop reading my autobiography,” she said.
He huffed.
They stopped in the little alcove that would serve as “backstage” on the night.
Two chairs, a full-length mirror, a narrow table.
“You’ll wait here,” she said, voice softer. “I’ll be right outside the curtain. Howard will be with you. You’ll hear the program through the speaker.” She pointed to a small black box in the corner. “When it’s time, I’ll give you a nod. You walk up. You do the thing. You get off.”
“You make it sound so simple,” he said.
“It is,” she said. “Physically.”
He tipped his head, conceding the distinction.
He went quiet for a moment, eyes tracking the lines of the walls.
“Did you do this,” he asked suddenly, “for the summit? When I wasn’t looking.”
“Walk rooms beforehand?” she said. “Every time. We did all that while you were up in your glass cage, scowling at the snow.”
“I don’t scowl,” he said automatically.
She gave him a look.
“Fine,” he said. “I scowl.”
“Occupational hazard,” she said.
“Trauma hazard,” he corrected.
“Both,” she allowed.
He dragged his gaze back to her, leaning one shoulder against the wall.
“How do you… not let it get to you?” he asked. “All this. The pressure. The possibility of everything going wrong.”
“Who says it doesn’t?” she said. “I just… function through it. And then I collapse on my couch and watch garbage television until my brain stops buzzing.”
His mouth quirked. “What’s garbage television?”
“Dating shows,” she said. “And home reno. And anything involving people baking under time pressure while a British person judges them.”
He snorted.
“I pictured you more as a documentary person,” he said. “War crimes. Corrupt corporations. That sort of thing.”
“I plan events with millionaires,” she said. “I live war crimes.”
He laughed, full this time.
It echoed weirdly off the industrial walls.
She liked the sound.
Too much.
“Okay,” he said. “Walk me through… the talk.”
“You want to rehearse?” she asked.
He grimaced. “I want to know what I’m up against,” he said. “So I can decide how much bourbon I need beforehand.”
She took a breath.
“Start with the obvious,” she said. “Thank you. I hate being up here. I didn’t do this for applause. Then… say why you did.”
He stiffened, barely.
“‘Because I have survivor’s guilt’ doesn’t play well over chicken,” he said.
“No,” she agreed. “But ‘because I know what it feels like to be scared and helpless and stuck in a place you don’t want to be’ *does*.”
He swallowed.
“Subtle,” he said.
“It doesn’t have to be long,” she said. “You say: ‘When I was younger, I spent time in a place where there were a lot of scared people and not enough resources. I got out. Not everyone did. This is my way of making sure more kids get out. So thank you for helping.’”
He stared at her.
“You make it sound easy,” he said.
“It’s *not* easy,” she said. “But it’s true. And you’re very good at saying true things in ways that make people shut up and listen.”
He huffed.
“What if I choke?” he asked, low. “Literally. Can’t talk. Can’t move.”
“Then you take a breath,” she said. “You look at me. I’ll be right there.” She pointed to the spot offstage again. “You ground. You feel your feet. The stage is not a collapsing roof. The ceiling is not going to come down. The worst thing that can happen is you trip over a microphone cord and some rich guy spills his wine.”
He closed his eyes for a second.
“When you say it, it sounds rational,” he murmured.
“It *is* rational,” she said. “The fear isn’t.”
“You’re not supposed to say that,” he said, opening his eyes. “You’re supposed to say ‘your feelings are valid.’”
“They *are* valid,” she said. “They’re just not accurate to this moment. There’s a difference.”
He stared at her.
“You really did read Brené Brown,” he said.
“Shut up,” she said.
He smiled.
They went back into the ballroom proper.
The sun had shifted, light slanting in through the high windows, catching dust motes.
Sophie stepped up onto the imaginary stage line again.
“Try it,” she said. “Just the first sentence. Out loud.”
He scowled at her.
“Nathan,” she said. “You faced Eleanor Chase and a room full of writers. You can face this.”
He sighed, dramatically.
Then he squared his shoulders, looked out at the empty chairs, and said, quietly, “Thank you for being here. I hate this.”
She burst out laughing.
He shot her a sidelong glance.
“That’s a good opener,” she said, still chuckling. “They’ll eat it up.”
“Not the ‘I hate this’ part,” he said.
“Especially that,” she said. “Everyone in that room knows what it’s like to stand somewhere they’d rather not because it’s the right thing to do.”
He made a low noise.
Then, more seriously, he tried again.
“Thank you for being here,” he said, voice a little steadier. “I’m not… comfortable with attention. But I am comfortable with kids having machines that don’t break when they need them most.”
Her chest tightened.
“That,” she said. “That’s it. That’s the line.”
He shrugged, awkward.
“Then I trail off into a nervous breakdown,” he said.
She rolled her eyes.
“Give yourself some credit,” she said. “You just survived me making you rehearse in an empty ballroom. The real thing will have adrenaline. And better lighting.”
He snorted.
She hopped down from the invisible stage.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go see the kitchen. It’ll calm you.”
“The kitchen?” he repeated skeptically.
“Rafe’s catering,” she said. “You think I’d let anyone else feed you now?”
His expression shifted.
“You didn’t tell me that,” he said.
“I’m full of surprises,” she said.
He followed her.
***
The Four Seasons’ kitchen was a polished machine of stainless steel and choreography. Rafe looked oddly at home in it, sleeves rolled, hair tied back, barking directions at a sous-chef about garnish plating.
When he saw them, he broke into a wide grin.
“Well, well,” he said. “My two favorite disaster magnets.”
“Who are you calling a magnet?” Sophie said.
“You,” he and Nathan said in unison.
Rafe clapped his hands once. “Come. Taste. Tell me what the rich donors will complain about behind their napkins.”
He handed them small plates with bites of seared salmon, roasted vegetables, some kind of potato tower that looked like a sculpture.
Nathan took a bite. Chewed. Closed his eyes.
“Okay,” he said. “Fine. I’ll come. For the food.”
“You’re coming to give money emotional weight,” Sophie said. “The food is a bonus.”
“I’m coming for the food,” he insisted.
Rafe watched them with an oddly perceptive expression.
“You look less like you’re about to die than the last time I saw you,” he said to Nathan.
“High praise,” Nathan said.
“He has a calendar now,” Sophie said. “With blocks.”
Rafe’s eyebrows shot up.
“The demon got into your time management,” he said. “You’re doomed.”
Nathan glanced at her, then back at Rafe.
“It’s… helping,” he admitted.
Sophie felt an unreasonable surge of pride.
Rafe caught her eye.
“Just remember,” he said, low enough that only she heard, “you’re not his keeper. You’re his consultant.”
She tensed.
“I know,” she said.
He tilted his head, unconvinced.
But he let it go.
As they left, Nathan lingered by the doorway.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
She frowned. “Me?”
“You went all stiff for a second,” he said. “Rafe say something?”
She shrugged.
“He reminded me I’m not your mom,” she said.
Nathan made a face. “God, can we never use the word ‘mom’ in relation to us again,” he said. “I will spontaneously combust.”
She laughed.
“I told him I know,” she said. “I do. I’m not… trying to fix you.”
“I know,” he said.
Their eyes met.
“You’re just… here,” he added. “Which is… more than enough.”
Her throat went tight.
“Good,” she said roughly.
They walked back through the ballroom together, their reflections small in the polished floor.
She imagined the room full.
The lights.
The cameras.
The kids in too-big suits and too-bright dresses, cheeks pink with excitement.
Him on the stage, shoulders straight, voice steady.
Her by the steps, heart in her throat but hand at the ready.
Fifteen minutes.
A fault line.
A chance.
The first rehearsal had gone better than she’d let herself hope.
Now they had to make sure the real thing didn’t shake them apart.
---