The day of the gala dawned clear and viciously bright.
Denver winters loved to trick people—blue skies that looked like June until you stepped outside and your lungs seized in the dry, subfreezing air.
Sophie stood at her bedroom window at 7 a.m., mug of coffee in hand, and watched her breath fog the glass.
Her dress hung on the closet door: midnight blue, simple, sleeveless, with a high neckline and a skirt that skimmed her hips without clinging. She’d picked it for practicality—pockets, movement, an overall vibe of “I belong here, but I can still sprint if a centerpiece catches fire.”
“Big night,” she muttered to herself.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Lia.
LIA: Send dress pics. LIA: I need to live vicariously through your high-society nonsense.
SOPHIE: It’s a children’s hospital fundraiser, not the Met Gala.
LIA: There will be canapés. That’s my Met Gala.
Sophie snapped a quick photo of the dress and sent it.
LIA: Ohhh. Classic. Sexy librarian goes to Congress. LIA: Love. LIA: How’s he?
SOPHIE: Doing breathing exercises somewhere in a glass box. SOPHIE: We did a run-through. He’ll be fine.
LIA: You’re sure?
SOPHIE: I promised him no roof would cave in. SOPHIE: I plan to keep that.
LIA: I know you will. LIA: I’ll be there too, you know. Lurking in the back in my one nice dress, judging everyone’s shoes.
Sophie smiled.
She’d almost forgotten that Lia would be there—not as a guest, but as hospital staff. The idea of her friend’s familiar, irreverent presence in the crowd soothed something.
SOPHIE: Don’t heckle my client. SOPHIE: Or do. He might relax.
LIA: No promises. LIA: Go do your hair. And breathe. LIA: You’ve got this. LIA: And if you don’t, I have a crash cart.
SOPHIE: Comforting.
She showered, blew out her hair, did her makeup with more care than usual.
She wasn’t trying to impress him.
She told herself that twice as she smoothed the dress down over her hips.
She added small gold hoops and a delicate bracelet Lia had given her when she’d signed the partnership papers.
She looked… like someone who knew what she was doing.
She hoped.
By 2 p.m., she was at the hotel.
The ballroom had transformed.
Tables draped in white linens dotted the room, each dressed with low arrangements of winter greenery and white tulips. Gold-rimmed plates gleamed. Candles flickered in glass holders. The stage riser had been installed, modest and sturdy, the podium set to the left, a huge screen behind it looping a slideshow of smiling kids in hospital gowns playing with therapy dogs and painting.
Audio techs crawled around like industrious beetles, taping down cords, testing mics.
“Check one, check two, pediatric oncology saves you,” one of them chanted into a standing microphone.
“Original,” Sophie deadpanned.
He grinned at her. “We aim to please.”
Howard arrived first, in a dark suit and an expression that managed to be both composed and deeply wary.
“House looks good,” he said, scanning the room.
“Tell me that again at midnight,” she replied.
“Where is he?” she asked, pretending her heart didn’t leap at the question.
“In the car, composing his last will and testament,” Howard said. “We hit traffic. He’s… quiet.”
“Quiet scared or quiet plotting?” she asked.
“A bit of both,” Howard said. “He insisted on reading his remarks to the dashboard. The dashboard was unhelpful.”
“Dashboards are notoriously unsupportive,” she said.
She glanced at her watch.
Three.
They were on schedule.
Karen appeared, all in black, a walkie-talkie clipped to her belt.
“We’re doing a quick run-through in twenty minutes,” she told Sophie. “Board chair, auctioneer, AV cues. Can we get Mr. Cross to stand on the stage for a second so we can check the sightlines?”
“Yes,” Sophie said. “We’ll keep it short.”
“Good,” Karen said. “He terrifies my marketing director.”
“He terrifies everyone,” Howard said. “It’s a gift.”
The elevator pinged.
Sophie’s stomach did that traitorous little swoop as soon as the doors slid open.
He stepped out in a black suit that fit him like someone had cared. The shoulders sat right, the jacket tapering at his waist instead of hanging. The shirt was crisp white, the tie a deep charcoal that made his eyes look impossibly pale.
He’d even shaved.
Mostly.
A shadow of stubble remained, softening the edges of his jaw.
He looked… dangerous.
And absurdly, achingly handsome.
Her fingers curled into her palms.
“Wow,” she said, before she could stop herself.
He paused, brows lifting.
“You too,” he said, and it came out rawer than he seemed to intend.
Heat shot up her neck.
“Come on,” she said briskly, professionalism snapping back into place. “We’re doing a quick tech run. Then you can hide until showtime.”
“Hide,” he echoed. “My favorite part.”
She led him to the stage.
The room looked different with him in it.
More anchored.
More charged.
He stepped up the two stairs like they might bite him.
The audio tech offered him a small clip-on mic.
“Put this on your lapel,” the guy said. “We’ll turn it on when you go up.”
Nathan frowned at the tiny device like it had insulted his mother.
Sophie stepped in, nimble fingers pinching the mic, clipping it neatly to his jacket.
Her knuckles brushed his chest.
He stilled.
For a second, all that existed was the thump of his heart under her fingers, the crisp fabric of his shirt, the heat of him.
She stepped back quickly, pulse skittering.
“There,” she said. “Now you’re wired.”
“Great,” he said. “Now you can hear my panic in surround sound.”
“I’ve heard worse,” she said.
She moved to the side, offstage, and pointed. “I’ll be right there,” she reminded him. “You look at me if you need to. Or at the exit sign over my head. Whatever helps.”
He nodded once, jaw tight.
Karen got up on stage with him.
“Ready to have your nightmares come true?” she asked cheerfully.
He gave her a look.
She laughed.
“I’m kidding,” she said. “Kind of. We’ll keep it short and sweet, I promise.”
They went through their cues.
“After the donor recognition, I’ll say, ‘There’s one more person we’d like to thank tonight,’” Karen said. “Cue your name, applause, you walk up, I stand here, you stand there, we smile awkwardly together, then I flee and leave you to it.”
“Great,” he muttered. “My favorite part. Smiling.”
Everyone laughed.
His shoulders loosened a fraction.
The lighting techs adjusted spots.
“Look up,” one called.
Nathan lifted his chin, squinting slightly.
A soft circle of light haloed him.
Sophie watched, arms folded, heart doing something complicated in her chest.
He looked like he belonged there.
On a stage.
Visible.
Seen.
She knew he didn’t feel that way.
But from here—from the side angle, half in shadow—he was… luminous.
“Okay,” the lead tech called. “We’re good. Mr. Cross, you can get off the sacrificial altar now.”
He stepped down, exhaling.
“Thoughts?” Sophie asked.
“Less awful than blizzard in a glass box,” he said. “More awful than writing.”
“I’ll take that,” she said.
Howard hovered at his elbow.
“Come on,” he murmured. “We’ll put you in the green room. Away from the donors.”
“Bless you,” Nathan said.
He glanced back once as they headed toward the side hall.
Their eyes met.
She gave him a small nod.
You’ve got this.
His mouth twitched.
He disappeared behind the curtain.
***
By six, the ballroom buzzed.
The lights had dimmed to a flattering warmth. The bar hummed. A string quartet played near the entrance, soft notes threading through the chatter.
Guests arrived in waves: couples in black tie, women in jewel-toned gowns, men in tuxes and sharp suits. Hospital staff in their best dresses and slightly ill-fitting jackets. Kids in tiny suits and sparkly dresses tugging at their collars and shoes.
Lia found her near the entrance, a vision in a deep green dress that set off her brown skin, her curls tamed into a loose updo already threatening to escape.
“You look fancy,” Sophie said, hugging her.
“I look like I raided my cousin’s closet,” Lia said. “Which I did.”
Her gaze swept the room, sharp.
“He here?” she asked.
“Green room,” Sophie said, nodding toward the back. “Howard has him under guard.”
“Good,” Lia said. “Keep him away from the surgeons. They’re sharks.”
Karen stepped up to the podium at seven, tapping the mic.
“Good evening, everyone,” she said, voice carrying easily. “Welcome to our annual Healing Hearts Gala…”
Sophie slipped into her usual event-operator trance.
She rode the waves of the evening, headset in place, one ear on the run-of-show, the other on the room’s tone.
Patient family video? Check—people dabbing at their eyes, sniffles audible.
Dinner course? Out on time. Rafe’s salmon was a hit; an attending in a sequined tie cornered him near the buffet and declared undying love.
The auction went wild.
A signed Broncos jersey went for five figures. A weekend in Vail with a private chef fetched even more. A naming opportunity for the new MRI suite had people raising paddles like they were at Sotheby’s.
“Fingers crossed they don’t name it after a cryptocurrency,” Lia muttered at Sophie’s elbow as the bidding ballooned.
“So help me God,” Sophie said.
Through it all, the awareness of Nathan’s presence hummed at the edge of her consciousness.
He was in the green room off the side hall, watching the feed on a monitor, Howard at his side.
She didn’t look in.
She couldn’t.
If she saw his face before his segment, she might lose her own composure.
At 8:20, Karen signaled.
Sophie’s pulse spiked.
“This is it,” Karen whispered as she passed. “Bring him up.”
Sophie walked to the green room.
It felt like walking down a tunnel.
The small lounge was lit softly, a couch against one wall, a monitor on the other showing the ballroom.
Nathan sat on the edge of the couch, hands clasped between his knees, shoulders hunched in a posture she recognized: braced.
Howard stood nearby, one hand on the back of a chair, as if ready to steady him if needed.
He looked up when she entered.
Whatever mask he’d had in the ballroom earlier was gone.
He looked… scared.
Not of the people.
Of himself.
“Showtime,” she said gently.
He stood.
His legs didn’t wobble.
His hands did.
She stepped closer without thinking and took his right hand briefly, squeezing.
His fingers curled around hers, grip tight, like a man grabbing a rope.
“Just people,” she said quietly. “Not a roof. Not a storm. Just people in chairs, already on your side. You’re going to talk to them. Then you’re going to walk off. I’ll be right there.”
He held her gaze.
“How do you do that?” he asked, voice low. “Make it sound… possible.”
“Because it is,” she said. “Because you’ve done harder things. Bigger storms.”
Silence.
He nodded once.
“Okay,” he said.
She let go of his hand.
Her palm tingled.
She turned to the door.
On the monitor, Karen stood at the podium, beaming.
“Tonight, we’ve heard from doctors, nurses, and families about what your generosity makes possible,” she was saying. “But there’s one more person we want to thank…”
Sophie walked ahead of him, heart racing.
The side of the stage loomed.
She took her place in the shadows, where she’d promised, just beyond the curtain.
He stood at the bottom of the stairs, visible only from her angle.
Their eyes met.
She nodded.
Karen’s voice rose.
“…a man whose contribution this year will allow us to install three new MRI machines in our pediatric wing. Machines that mean faster diagnoses, less time under sedation, and more kids going home healthy. Please join me in thanking—Nathan Cross.”
Applause hit like a wave.
He flinched.
Then he stepped up.
One. Two.
He walked as he’d done in rehearsal, shoulders square, gaze forward.
The lights hit him.
The applause swelled.
He took his place beside Karen.
From the floor, someone whistled.
“Thank you, Nathan,” Karen said, leaning toward the mic. “For your incredible generosity.”
He nodded, lips twitching in something that was almost but not quite a smile.
She stepped back.
Left him there.
Alone.
He turned to the microphone.
Sophie held her breath.
“Thank you for being here,” he said.
His voice carried, clear and strong.
“I hate this,” he added.
Laughter rippled, warm.
Good, she thought. Good.
“I’m not great at… this kind of thing,” he went on. “Talks. Spotlights. Rooms where the ceilings are higher than the exits.”
More laughter.
He cut a quick glance to her.
She flashed a tiny thumbs-up.
He exhaled.
“I write fiction for a living,” he said. “I make up terrible things to happen to imaginary people. It turns out, real life is better at terrible things.”
A murmur moved through the room.
“When I was nineteen,” he said, “I was in a house that wasn’t built to withstand the storm it got. The roof came down. I got out. Someone else didn’t.”
Silence.
Sophie’s throat closed.
“I spent time in hospitals after that,” he said. “I remember… the feeling. Of being scared. Of not knowing if the people in charge had what they needed. Machines. Staff. Time.”
He swallowed.
“I got… lucky,” he said. “Lucky with my body. Lucky with… what my brain did with it after.”
A small, strangled sound came from somewhere behind Sophie.
She didn’t look.
“I make a lot of money,” he said bluntly. “More than anyone needs. And I don’t always spend it well. But this… this felt simple. Machines that work. Faster answers. Less time in limbo for kids and their parents.”
He looked out over the room.
“You did most of this,” he said, surprising her. “With your tickets, your donations, your silent auction bids on weekends in Vail. I just… gave a chunk. Because I could. Because I know what it’s like to wish the people in charge had more.”
He blew out a breath.
“I don’t want a plaque,” he said. “Or a wing. Or my name on anything. I just want… you to keep doing what you do. And maybe, if you can, give a little more tonight. For the kids who are in the hallway right now, listening to the storm outside and hoping the roof holds.”
His gaze flicked, almost imperceptibly, to her.
She swallowed back the lump in her throat.
“That’s all,” he said. “Thank you.”
Silence held for a heartbeat.
Then the room exploded.
Applause thundered.
People rose from their chairs, some slow, some all at once.
A standing ovation.
He flinched again, just barely.
Then he nodded, once, sharply, and walked off.
He didn’t hurry.
He didn’t bolt.
He stepped down the stairs like a man walking off a small platform, not a cliff.
Sophie reached for him without thinking.
Her hand closed around his arm, fingers pressing into the muscle through the wool.
He stopped.
He was breathing hard, chest rising and falling, eyes bright in the dim light.
“You did it,” she whispered.
“I didn’t die,” he said.
“Better than not dying,” she said. “You were… good.”
He huffed a short, incredulous laugh.
“Good?” he echoed.
“They stood,” she said. “For you. For the kids. For what you said.”
He looked past her, to the room.
The sea of faces, still clapping, still turned toward the stage.
“I hate that,” he said.
“I know,” she said.
He dragged his gaze back to her.
“But I… don’t hate that I said it,” he added quietly.
Her heart clenched.
She squeezed his arm once more and let go.
Howard appeared, hand on his shoulder.
“Come on,” he murmured. “We’ll get you water.”
“I want bourbon,” Nathan muttered.
“Water first,” Howard said.
They disappeared into the hallway.
Sophie turned back to the room.
Karen had stepped back up to the podium, cheeks damp.
“If anyone needed a reason to raise their paddles even higher tonight,” she said, voice thick, “I think we just heard it.”
People laughed, sniffled, sat.
The auctioneer bounded up, energy high.
Bidding resumed.
Sophie stood in the shadows a moment longer, fingers still tingling.
He’d done it.
He’d stood under artificial stars instead of real ones, under a ceiling that would hold, and told the truth.
She’d promised him no roofs.
She’d kept it.
Now she had to deal with the aftershocks.
***
She found him an hour later in a small terrace off the side hall, door cracked to let in cold air.
The lights of downtown glittered below, the city humming.
He stood with one hand braced on the railing, head tipped back, eyes closed.
His tie was loosened, the top button of his shirt undone.
A half-empty glass of bourbon sat on the stone ledge beside him.
“You really like cold balconies,” she said softly, stepping out.
“Fresh air,” he said, not opening his eyes. “Harder to suffocate in it.”
She moved to stand beside him, leaving a respectable foot of space.
Respectable, she thought. Shaky.
“How are you?” she asked.
He chuckled, low.
“You keep asking me that,” he said. “One of these days, I should learn to answer honestly.”
“That would be nice,” she said.
He opened his eyes.
They glinted under the terrace lights.
“I feel… weird,” he admitted. “Like someone turned me inside out and everyone clapped.”
She huffed. “That’s… accurate.”
“I didn’t say too much?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “You said… exactly enough.”
His throat worked.
“They stood,” he said, as if he still didn’t quite believe it.
“Yeah,” she said. “They did.”
“I wanted to tell them to sit down,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “You didn’t.”
He glanced at her.
“You were there,” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
“Like you said you would be,” he added.
Something in his voice made her chest ache.
“Of course,” she said.
He was quiet for a moment.
“Lia was crying,” he said.
She smiled. “She cries at cat food commercials.”
“She glared at me from the back,” he said. “Like, ‘if you make a joke about the machines being haunted, I will kill you.’”
“That tracks,” she said.
He looked at her, really looked.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
“For what?” she murmured.
“For… dragging me onto a stage and not letting me drown,” he said. “For not… babying me. For building the room around my fear without letting the fear run it.”
Her eyes burned.
“You did the hard part,” she said. “You stood there and opened your mouth.”
“I open my mouth too often,” he said. “Usually to say the wrong thing. Tonight it… felt like maybe the right one.”
“It was,” she said.
They fell into silence.
The wind lifted a strand of her hair and brushed it against his jacket.
He didn’t move away.
She could feel the warmth radiating off him, the tension still vibrating under his calm.
“You know this doesn’t mean anything,” he said suddenly.
Her stomach dropped.
“What?” she asked.
“This,” he said, gesturing back toward the ballroom. “The applause. The standing. The article. The gala. It doesn’t… fix anything. It doesn’t make me a better person. It doesn’t… erase the roof.”
She exhaled.
“I know,” she said.
“I’ve done… good things before,” he said. “And bad things. Neither canceled the other. I’m still… me.”
“Complicated,” she said.
“Fucked up,” he corrected.
“Human,” she amended.
He gave her a wry look.
“You’re very invested in using the word ‘human’ around me,” he said.
“Someone has to,” she said. “You keep trying to turn yourself into a ghost.”
He looked at her for a long beat.
Then, quietly, “You’re good for me.”
Dangerous words.
She felt them settle somewhere deep, like hooks.
“Nathan,” she said, warning in her tone.
“I know,” he said quickly. “You’re not my… salvation. Or my mom. Or my anything you don’t want to be. I’m just… saying. This—” he gestured between them “—is doing things to my head.”
“Good things?” she asked, almost scared of the answer.
“Uncomfortable things,” he said. “But… less static. More… possibility.”
Her heart pounded.
She stepped back, just a half-step, enough to catch her breath.
“We need to be careful,” she said.
“Because of your job,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “Because of my job. Because of Aurora. Because of… you. Because the more our lives overlap, the more any mistake explodes.”
He nodded slowly.
“Because of power dynamics,” he added.
Her eyebrows rose.
“Look at you,” she said softly. “Therapy is working.”
“Don’t tell him,” he said. “He’ll raise his rates.”
She smiled.
“I’m serious,” he went on. “I’m… older. Richer. You did a job for me that changed your career. I influenced that. I can influence more. That’s… dangerous.”
She exhaled, relieved he was saying it.
“It is,” she agreed.
“And yet,” he said, voice dipping, “I keep wanting to… cross lines.”
Her pulse skittered.
“Like kissing your event planner on a mountain?” she said.
His mouth twisted.
“Yes,” he said. “And like… texting her at midnight. And like… wanting to see what she looks like when she’s not wearing a headset and saving my ass.”
Her cheeks heated.
“This is not… better,” she said.
“It’s honest,” he said.
She wrapped her arms around herself.
“Honesty is a bitch,” she said.
He huffed.
“I’m not asking you for… anything right now,” he said. “Not for this. Not for us. I’m just… telling you where my head is. So if I cross a line, you can smack me with a clipboard and say, ‘you knew better.’”
“I’ll do more than smack you,” she said.
“I hope so,” he muttered.
She choked on a laugh.
He smiled, small and real.
“Go back in,” she said, before the air could thicken past the point of no return. “Let people tell you you were brilliant. Nod awkwardly. Eat dessert. Then go home.”
“Will you be there?” he asked.
“In the dessert line?” she said. “Obviously.”
He rolled his eyes.
“In the room,” he clarified.
“Yes,” she said. “Until the last centerpiece is boxed and the last drunk doctor is in a cab.”
He sighed.
“Of course,” he said. “You don’t leave rooms.”
“Not until everyone else does,” she said.
He looked at her like he wanted to argue and kiss and run all at once.
“Okay,” he said.
They went back in together.
Side by side.
Not touching.
Close enough that every nerve in her arm screamed.
The fault lines hadn’t cracked.
Yet.
But the pressure was building.
---