Chapter 14
Luca
T wo weeks later.
I woke well before my alarm, before even a hint of daylight crept through the blinds. My heart pounded against my ribs. Fundraiser day. The culmination of weeks of planning, of spreadsheets and phone calls and Rebekah's brilliant ideas coming together.
Turning my head, I found her curled beside me, a tangle of chestnut hair splayed across my pillow, one pale arm flung outward, fingers delicately curled. The quilt had slipped down to reveal her freckled shoulder, and I resisted the urge to trace the constellations there with my fingertip.
These past two weeks had been . . . transformative. Since that night at the club, when she'd trusted me enough to let me see her vulnerable side, something had shifted between us.
We were more than just a couple, more than just Daddy Dom and Little Girl. We were a unit.
"Rebekah," I whispered, gently brushing hair from her face. "Baby girl, time to wake up."
She burrowed deeper into the pillow, making a little noise of protest that made my chest tighten with affection.
"Five more minutes, Daddy," she mumbled, the sleepy endearment slipping out naturally now, when it was just the two of us.
I couldn't help the smile that spread across my face. "The community center opens at eight, princess. We need to be there by seven."
One eye cracked open, assessing me. "You've got your serious face on again." She stretched, catlike and languid. "Did you sleep at all, or were you mentally color-coding spreadsheet cells all night?"
"I slept," I protested, though I had spent a solid hour running through contingencies before finally drifting off.
She pushed herself up, sheets pooling around her waist, and squinted at me through the dim light. "Mister Spreadsheets strikes again." Her teasing tone couldn't quite mask the flutter of anxiety I detected. "You worried?"
"Not about the fundraiser," I said, reaching out to cup her cheek. "Not about us. Just . . . want everything to be perfect."
Rebekah leaned into my touch. "Three thousand dollars for the community center renovation. That's our goal, right?"
"Right." I kissed her forehead. "And with your art auction and the raffle prizes you secured, we'll make it."
She slipped out of bed, grabbing my discarded dress shirt from the chair and sliding it over her slender frame. The sight of her in my clothes still sent a jolt through me.
"Coffee?" she asked, padding toward the kitchen, pausing to gather her hair into a messy bun.
"You know it." I followed her, watching as she moved through my space with newfound familiarity.
In the kitchen, she worked the coffee maker while I pulled out bread for toast. We moved around each other, a dance we'd perfected over countless mornings. Hard to believe a month ago we'd barely known each other.
"Did we remember to confirm the silent auction forms?" she asked, setting a steaming mug in front of me.
I nodded. "Triple-checked last night. Right before you distracted me."
A blush crept up her neck. "I don't recall hearing any complaints about that distraction, Your Honor."
"Never said it was unwelcome." I spread strawberry jam on her toast the way she liked it—right to the edges, no bare spots. "Just pointing out that you have ways of derailing my productivity."
She took a bite, leaving a smudge of jam on her lower lip that I desperately wanted to kiss away. "Thought lawyers were good at multitasking."
"Some things deserve my undivided attention."
The toast was consumed in record time, both of us too keyed up to linger. Rebekah disappeared to dress while I packed the car, carrying boxes of decorations down from my spare room. The morning air held a crisp promise as I loaded everything into the trunk of my Audi.
When she emerged from the apartment, she'd transformed into the consummate professional—floral dress, cardigan, hair tamed into a twist. Only I knew the woman beneath that polished exterior, the one who'd whispered her deepest desires against my skin in the midnight hours.
"Last box," I said, hefting a container of craft supplies. "You got the master spreadsheet?"
"In my bag," she confirmed, but I caught the slight tremor in her voice.
I set the box down and drew her into my arms. "Hey. Look at me."
She tilted her chin up, beautiful blue eyes meeting mine.
"We're ready," I told her firmly. "You've worked harder than anyone to make this happen."
"We both have." Her fingers played with the buttons of my shirt. "I just . . . there's so many people counting on us. The community center needs this money. And the town needs the community center."
I brushed my lips against hers, a gentle reassurance. "And they'll have it. Because of you."
Rebekah relaxed slightly against me. "Because of us," she corrected. "I never could have organized all this without your connections."
"And I wouldn't have thought to include half the community activities without your creativity." I kissed her again, unable to resist. "We make a good team."
She smiled against my mouth. "Who would have thought? The uptight lawyer and the scattered crafter."
"I prefer 'detail-oriented' to 'uptight,'" I countered, opening the passenger door for her.
As we pulled away from my apartment building, Rebekah reached over and squeezed my hand resting on the gearshift. The simple gesture conveyed everything—her trust, her partnership, her newfound place in my life.
"Ready to save the community center, Daddy?" she asked.
I laced our fingers together, feeling the rightness of her hand in mine. "With you? I'm ready for anything."
T he community center gleamed in early morning light. Volunteers scurried across the lawn like determined ants, hauling folding tables and stringing colorful banners between light posts. I parked in the makeshift staff area, Rebekah bouncing in her seat beside me before I'd even cut the engine.
"They're all here already," she breathed, her eyes wide with wonder. "Lucy said she'd be early, but—everyone came."
I reached across to tuck a wild strand of hair behind her ear. "Of course they did. Everyone in town cares about this place. And they care about you, too."
She rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress her smile. "It's probably because of you, Daddy. They all listen when you use your big lawyer voice."
"My big lawyer voice?" I raised an eyebrow.
"All authoritative and stern. 'I'd consider it a personal favor if you'd donate your time,'" she mimicked, lowering her voice to an exaggerated baritone.
I laughed, leaning in to steal a quick kiss. "Effective, though."
Rebekah was out of the car before I could unbuckle my seatbelt, already waving to Marie, who stood directing traffic with clipboard in hand. I grabbed the heaviest crate from the trunk—craft supplies that Rebekah had spent an entire evening organizing by color and type—and followed her toward the entrance.
"Need help with that, boss?" Lucy appeared at my side, her round face flushed with excitement.
"I've got it," I assured her. "But you can get the door."
Inside, the main hall had been transformed from the dusty multipurpose room we'd first surveyed into something that looked almost professional. Tables lined the perimeter, each designated for different activities. A small stage had been erected at the far end, and volunteers were carefully arranging chairs in neat rows.
Rebekah instantly took charge, her natural energy drawing everyone's attention. "Lucy, can you move those floral arrangements to frame the entrance? I want people to feel welcome the moment they step in." She gestured toward a stack of potted plants. "And Marie, how's the café setup coming?"
Marie looked up from where she was arranging coffee urns. "Just about ready. Dwight brought the pastries, too. I'm gonna display them here."
I watched Rebekah navigate the room, greeting each volunteer by name, adjusting items with an artist's eye for detail. She remembered everyone—from elderly Mrs. Peterson manning the book sale to teenage Dylan who'd volunteered to run the children's craft station. Her enthusiasm radiated outward, infectious and genuine.
"She's something else, isn't she?" A voice beside me made me turn. Dwight stood there, guitar case slung over his shoulder, eyes twinkling.
"That she is," I agreed, unable to keep the pride from my voice.
Rebekah noticed Dwight and waved enthusiastically. "Music man! Please tell me you brought your setlist?"
"All ready to go, sunshine," he called back with a mock salute. Rebekah had worked super hard to get Dwight to agree to performing. His rock band days were behind him, of course, but he'd agreed to play some more low-key material. "Got those old folk tunes you wanted, plus some acoustic covers for the younger crowd." He turned back to me with a knowing smile. "Gonna do a short set mid-morning, then another after lunch. Should keep the energy up."
"We appreciate it," I told him, clapping him on the shoulder.
"Anything for you, brother," Dwight replied, then lowered his voice. "And anything for that girl. Town hasn't seen this kind of spirit in years."
As Dwight wandered off to set up his equipment, Rebekah returned to my side, face flushed with excitement.
"Daddy, this is actually happening," she whispered, gripping my arm.
"Did you doubt it would?" I asked, setting down the crate of supplies.
"Honestly? Every single day." She glanced around the room, her expression softening. "When I first agreed to contribute, I thought maybe we'd get a bake sale and a few donation jars. But this... this is a real event."
For the next hour, we moved as a unit, Rebekah's boundless energy perfectly balanced by my methodical approach. I followed her from station to station, checking off items on our master list while she breathed life into every corner of the room.
"Silent auction items are all accounted for," I confirmed, examining the display table where local businesses had donated everything from restaurant gift certificates to weekend getaways. "Each one has the proper sponsor tag."
Rebekah beamed, adjusting a decorative ribbon. "Check raffle prizes next? I'm worried we might be missing the bike donation from Spoke Station."
We found the bicycle secured behind the stage, gleaming red with a giant bow.
"One more thing to worry about checked off the list." I made a dramatic show of crossing it off.
"My chaos needs your order." Her tone was teasing, but I caught the underlying sincerity.
I reached for her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "And my order needs your chaos. I'd have scheduled this fundraiser with military precision but forgotten to make it fun."
Across the room, Marcus wrestled with speaker wires, his usually stoic expression twisted in concentration.
"Should we help him?" Rebekah asked, biting her lower lip.
"Let me," I offered. "You finish setting up the craft station."
Marcus nodded in greeting as I approached. "Damn thing won't sync with the microphone."
"Did you check the receiver?" I asked, kneeling beside him.
"Twice. It's like it's picking up interference or something."
We spent several minutes troubleshooting until a satisfying crackle came through the speakers. Marcus allowed himself a small smile of victory.
"Didn't know lawyers knew about sound systems," he commented, testing the volume levels.
"I didn't always wear a suit," I replied. "Paid my way through undergrad working tech for campus events."
Marcus regarded me with new interest. "Huh. Thought you were born with a silver spoon and briefcase."
I laughed. "Far from it."
"Luca!" Rebekah's voice called from across the room. She stood waving excitedly, surrounded by volunteers. "Could you come check the volunteer schedule? I think we might have double-booked the face painting station!"
"Duty calls," I told Marcus, who nodded knowingly.
Lucy intercepted me halfway, offering an iced coffee. "Thought you might need this. You two must have been running around since dawn."
"Thanks, Lucy," I accepted gratefully. "Everything looking good to you?"
"Better than good," she replied, her round face beaming. "Rebekah's done the impossible. People in this town haven't come together like this in years." She lowered her voice. "Not sure if you've noticed, but she's practically glowing with you around."
I felt warmth spread through my chest that had nothing to do with the coffee. "She's the one making this happen."
"Maybe," Lucy shrugged, "but she's different with you. More anchored, somehow."
I watched Rebekah across the room, gesturing animatedly as she explained something to a volunteer. Her laughter carried across the space, bright and uninhibited. When she caught my eye, her smile softened into something more intimate, just for me.
The thought struck me suddenly, powerfully: I love her.
I knew it already, of course. But there was something about seeing her like this that made me feel it even more keenly. I'd fallen for her gradually, then all at once. For her enthusiasm and creativity, her vulnerability and strength. For the way she pulled me out of my carefully ordered world and showed me the beauty in chaos.
"You've got it bad," Lucy whispered with a knowing grin before disappearing into the crowd.
I made my way to Rebekah, who was now consulting her clipboard with a small furrow between her brows.
"Problem?" I asked, handing her the second iced coffee Lucy had provided.
"Just double-checking the schedule." She took a grateful sip.
"We've got this, Rebekah. We really do."
Her smile was radiant as she leaned into me slightly. "We do, don't we?"
Around us, the community center hummed with possibility. Dwight tuned his guitar in the corner, occasionally strumming a test chord. Lucy flitted between volunteers, offering encouragement and instructions. And in the center of it all was Rebekah, the heart of everything, her passion making even the most reluctant volunteers believe in what we were doing.
I watched her, cataloging each detail—the faint smudge of glitter on her cheek, the determined set of her jaw, the way her eyes danced when she laughed. In that moment, I knew with absolute certainty that whatever happened next, I was exactly where I was meant to be.
"Ten minutes to doors," Marie called out, her normally soft voice carrying across the hall.
Rebekah squeezed my hand once, her palm warm against mine. "This is it."
"You ready?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
"Born ready," she replied with that infectious grin. She bounced on her toes, a habit I'd come to recognize as her way of channeling nervous energy into enthusiasm.
At precisely ten o'clock, Rebekah swung the double doors open. Sunlight flooded in along with the first wave of attendees—three families with children in tow, an elderly couple arm-in-arm, and what appeared to be a local business owner I recognized from Chamber of Commerce meetings.
"Welcome to the Community Arts Initiative Fundraiser!" Rebekah's voice rang out with genuine warmth. She immediately dropped to one knee, bringing herself to eye level with a shy little girl clutching her mother's hand. "Would you like a special name tag? I've got glitter ones."
The child's eyes widened as Rebekah produced a sparkly sticker, writing the girl's name—"Emma"—with a flourish.
"There you go. Now everyone will know you're a very important guest."
I couldn't help but smile as I watched her work her magic. Every person who walked through that door received not just a name tag, but a moment where they felt truly seen.
"Mr. Wright!" A sponsor from the local furniture store approached me, gesturing toward the silent auction display. "Everything looks wonderful. Where do you want us to set up our donation?"
"Right this way," I replied, guiding him toward the appropriate table. "And please, call me Luca."
For the next hour, I moved between stations like a pinball, addressing small emergencies with practiced calm.
"We're out of raffle tickets at the front booth," Marcus informed me, his typically stoic expression betraying a hint of concern.
"There's an extra book in the supply box under the registration table," I answered, already moving toward my next task. "Lucy knows where."
At the craft corner, a volunteer was frantically searching for scissors. "Check with Marie," I directed, remembering she'd organized an emergency kit. "She's got extras in the café area."
Between crises, I caught glimpses of Rebekah. She was in her element—laughing, directing, solving problems with creative flair. Occasionally our eyes would meet across the room, and she'd flash me a private smile or a quick thumbs-up. Each time, my chest tightened with something that felt dangerously close to adoration.
Near the refreshment table, an extension cord came up frustratingly short of the coffee urn.
"We need another three feet at least," the volunteer complained.
I grabbed the spare I'd hidden in the store cupboard that morning. "Always be prepared," I said, connecting the cords with a satisfying click.
When I looked up, Rebekah was watching me, amusement dancing in her eyes. She mouthed "Boy Scout" at me from across the room, and I couldn't help but laugh.
The crowd continued to grow, filling the community center with cheerful chatter. I made my way back to Rebekah, drawn to her like a compass seeking north.
"How are we doing?" I asked, my hand instinctively finding hers in the crowd.
"Better than I hoped," she whispered, her fingers interlacing with mine. "Did you see Mrs. Cheng write a check for two hundred right at the door?"
"I did." I squeezed her hand. "That's all you, by the way. It's impossible to say no to you. Ask me how I know."
She blushed, the soft pink highlighting the dusting of freckles across her nose. "I think it's the name tags. No one can resist a personalized dinosaur sticker."
"It's definitely not the stickers," I murmured, studying her face with what must have been embarrassing transparency.
An hour later, the fundraiser was in full swing. I paused near the silent auction table, taking in the scene with a growing sense of pride. The community center had transformed from a mundane space into something vibrant—just like my life since Rebekah had crashed into it.
A warm certainty settled in my chest as I spotted her across the room, surrounded by a semi-circle of children. She sat cross-legged on the floor, her floral sundress pooling around her, demonstrating how to create tissue paper flowers. Glitter sparkled in her hair from an earlier craft mishap, and her laughter carried across the room as one of the kids presented her with a particularly colorful creation.
"She's good with them," Lucy remarked, appearing at my elbow. She and Marie gestured toward the donation jar, which was nearly full. "We've already collected almost a thousand just in cash donations. The silent auction items are getting serious bids too."
"That's incredible," I said, unable to keep the smile from my face.
Dwight had set up in the corner, his acoustic guitar providing a perfect backdrop to the festive atmosphere. He caught my eye and tipped an imaginary hat before launching into a folksy rendition of "Here Comes the Sun." Even Marcus, who I'd rarely seen express emotion beyond mild irritation, was smiling as he adjusted the sound levels.
"We might actually pull this off," Marie said quietly, her usual pessimism replaced by cautious optimism.
"We're going to blow past three thousand," I predicted, watching as another sponsor added a bid to the silent auction sheet. "At this rate, we'll be able to fund a bunch of extra programs."
I made my way to where Rebekah sat among the children, now showing them how to add glitter accents to their paper flowers. She looked up as I approached, her eyes crinkling at the corners in the way that made my heart stutter.
"Mr. Luca!" one of the boys called out, recognizing me from previous community events. "Look what Miss Rebekah taught us to make!"
"That's pretty impressive," I said, crouching down to admire his handiwork. "You've got quite the artistic talent there, buddy."
Rebekah beamed at me, a smudge of glue on her cheek and contentment radiating from her every feature. "These kids are naturals. Future artists, all of them."
"With a teacher like you, how could they fail?" I whispered as the children returned to their crafting.
Her cheeks flushed again, but before she could respond, a young girl tugged at her sleeve, demanding assistance with a particularly tricky origami fold.
"Duty calls," she said with a wink, turning back to her small charges.
I straightened, surveying the room with a satisfaction I hadn't felt in years of legal practice. This—creating something meaningful, watching Rebekah bloom in her element—felt more rewarding than any courtroom victory.
A discreet tap on my shoulder interrupted my reverie. I turned to find William Pearson, the silver-haired CEO of Pearson Manufacturing, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses with a polite smile. His company was our largest potential donor, with a matching pledge that would double our current haul. Beside him stood a thin woman with a severe bun and tortoiseshell glasses who I recognized as his financial advisor, Patricia Coleman.
"Mr. Wright," he said, extending a manicured hand. "Wonderful event you've put together."
I shook his hand firmly. "Thank you, Mr. Pearson. We're thrilled with the turnout."
"Indeed." He nodded, glancing around the bustling community center. "I was hoping to finalize our matching donation. Ms. Coleman would like to review the donation tracking system before I sign off on the paperwork."
"Of course," I said smoothly, maintaining my professional demeanor. "I'd be happy to walk you through that."
Patricia adjusted her glasses, clipboard in hand. "Let's start with the donation collection point. I'd like to see how you're recording and safeguarding funds."
"Right this way."
I led them to the main donation table where Rebekah had set up her system. She'd been collecting cash donations in a lockbox, recording each one in a handwritten ledger before transferring the information to her personal spreadsheet on her laptop.
Patricia frowned immediately, peering at the simple setup. "Is this the entire financial tracking system for the fundraiser?"
"Rebekah has been managing the donations," I explained. "She's keeping meticulous records."
The financial advisor picked up Rebekah's ledger, flipping through the pages with increasing concern. "And where are the official receipt books? The duplicate documentation?"
A cold sensation began to spread through my chest. "I'm sorry?"
Patricia's expression tightened. "Mr. Wright, I'm seeing cash handling with no proper chain of custody, no official receipts for tax purposes, and no duplicate records." She lowered her voice to avoid being overheard. "This isn't just disorganized—it's potentially illegal. Without proper documentation, these donations aren't tax-deductible. The donors expecting tax write-offs could face audit issues, and the community center could be liable for facilitating improper deductions."
The blood drained from my face as the implications hit me. As a lawyer, I should have caught this. I should have known that nonprofit fundraising required specific documentation protocols that went beyond simply recording amounts in a spreadsheet.
"I'll get Rebekah," I said, maintaining my composure through sheer willpower. "She's handling the donation records."
I scanned the room, finding her still at the craft table, helping a young boy with his paper flower. The sight of her—so joyful, so in her element—made my heart clench with dread at what I had to tell her.
"Rebekah," I called softly as I approached. "Could I speak with you for a moment? It's important."
She looked up, her smile faltering as she registered my expression. "Of course." She turned to the children. "I'll be right back, okay? Lucy will help you with your flowers until I return."
I guided her to a quiet corner, Ms. Coleman and Mr. Pearson waiting a discreet distance away.
"What's wrong?" she asked, searching my face. "You look like someone just died."
I took a deep breath. "There's an issue with the donation system you set up."
"What kind of issue?" The color was already beginning to drain from her face.
"The financial advisor from Pearson Manufacturing says we're not properly documenting the donations for tax purposes. We need official receipts, duplicate records, proper tracking—"
"But I've recorded everything!" Panic edged into her voice as she pulled out her ledger. "Look, I wrote down every donation, every donor name, every amount—"
"I know you did," I assured her, touching her arm gently. "But for nonprofit fundraising, there are legal requirements beyond that. Donors need official receipts for tax deductions. We need proper documentation that meets IRS standards."
The realization dawned on her face, horror replacing confusion. "Are you saying . . . are you saying I've been doing it wrong this whole time? That none of these donations are valid?"
"They're valid," I clarified quickly, "but the documentation isn't adequate for tax purposes. Ms. Coleman says it could potentially create legal issues for the donors and the community center."
Rebekah's hands began to tremble. "How bad is it?"
I hesitated. "It's . . . significant. If we can't fix it, we might have to return the donations."
She pressed a shaking hand to her mouth. "Return everything? All of it? After all this work?"
Before I could answer, Ms. Coleman approached, her professional demeanor doing little to soften her words. "Ms. Rebekah, I presume? I need to discuss the irregularities in your donation tracking system."
Rebekah straightened, visibly trying to compose herself. "Yes, of course. What exactly is the problem?"
"The problem," Ms. Coleman said, adjusting her glasses, "is that you've been accepting tax-deductible donations without proper documentation. Each cash donation requires an official receipt with the organization's tax ID and a duplicate record. Donors expecting tax write-offs could face audit issues, and the community center itself could be liable for facilitating improper deductions."
With each word, Rebekah seemed to physically shrink. "I didn't know . . . I thought recording everything was enough."
Ms. Coleman's expression softened slightly. "This isn't just a matter of being disorganized. This is a regulatory issue with potential legal consequences. If these donations have been reported to donors as tax-deductible without proper documentation, it could constitute fraud."
"Fraud?" Rebekah whispered, the word hitting her like a physical blow. "But I didn't—I would never—"
"Not intentional fraud," Ms. Coleman clarified, "but the effect is the same. The IRS doesn't distinguish between malicious intent and ignorance when it comes to improper tax deductions."
I stepped in, my protective instincts flaring. "There must be a way to rectify this. We have all the information—amounts, names, dates. Surely we can create the proper documentation retroactively."
Ms. Coleman shook her head. "It's not that simple. The proper procedures should have been in place from the beginning. Mr. Pearson cannot authorize a matching donation to an organization with such significant financial irregularities. The risk is too great."
Somehow, rumors of disaster started to spread.
"Is it true? There's something wrong with the donations?" A woman in a crisp blazer approached us, clipboard in hand. I recognized her as Janet, assistant to Mr. Pearson.
I stepped forward, instinctively positioning myself between her and Rebekah. "We're handling a minor logistics issue, Janet. Nothing that will impact the event."
"Minor?" Janet's perfectly penciled eyebrows arched. "I just heard Ms. Coleman use the word 'fraud.' That's hardly minor. Those are donor funds we're talking about."
The words hung awkwardly in the air, sharp and unforgiving. I could feel Rebekah shrinking behind me, could almost hear her heartbeat accelerating.
"We're addressing the concerns," I said firmly. "There's been no fraud, just a procedural oversight we're correcting."
From beside Janet, an older woman with silver hair and a concerned smile leaned in. "Oh dear, is there trouble?" Her gaze flicked to Rebekah, whose eyes had filled with tears. "It's a lot for someone so scattered, dear," she added in what I'm sure she thought was a comforting tone. "Such a big responsibility for such a young person."
I watched helplessly as Rebekah's face flushed with shame. The murmurs around us seemed to swell, conversations dying as people turned to observe the commotion. A hush rippled outward, creating a spotlight that Rebekah had never asked for.
Her shoulders tensed beneath her flowered dress, the one she'd been so excited to wear today. I moved closer, wanting desperately to shield her from the scrutiny that was closing in from all sides.
"We'll address every concern properly," I announced, addressing not just Janet but the gathering crowd. "Everything will be rectified within proper guidelines."
But my reassurance came too late. Rebekah let out a tiny, choked sob—a sound so vulnerable that my chest ached. She pressed her fist against her mouth, as if trying to physically hold back her emotions.
Janet looked at her with unmistakable pity, head tilting slightly. "Well, we certainly hope so. These things happen with . . . inexperienced organizers."
I wanted to snap at her, to remind her that "inexperienced" Rebekah had secured more community participation than the town had seen in years. Instead, I reached for Rebekah's trembling hand.
"This isn't a reflection on the incredible work you've done," I murmured, my voice low enough that only she could hear. "Let me handle this part."
But when my fingers brushed against her arm, she jolted as if burned. Panicked embarrassment colored her cheeks, transforming her usual vibrant complexion into something pale and stricken. The crowded room seemed to close in on her—too many eyes, too many whispers, too much judgment.
"Rebekah," I tried again, moving to wrap an arm around her waist, to ground her in the moment.
Before I could complete the gesture, she wrenched herself backward, stumbling away from me with such force that she knocked into a display of handmade crafts. The table wobbled precariously, but she didn't seem to notice, her gaze unfocused and desperate.
"I can't—" she whispered, and I saw something break behind her eyes—that confident sparkle I'd grown to love, eclipsed by shame.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I'd never seen her like this, had never imagined that the woman who charged through life with such boundless enthusiasm could look so utterly defeated. I reached for her again, knowing I needed to get her somewhere quiet, away from the volunteers and sponsors and their well-meaning but devastating scrutiny.
But she was already backing away, her breathing shallow, eyes darting between faces like a cornered animal.
"Rebekah," I murmured, keeping my voice low enough that only she could hear, "take a deep breath. Let me handle this. It's fixable—we'll make it right."
She shook her head frantically, tears now clinging to her lashes like morning dew. Each drop threatened to fall but stubbornly held on, just like she was trying to do with her composure.
"I can't—I messed up—I ruined everything," she uttered, her voice breaking on the last word. "They're saying it's fraud. I could have gotten the community center in trouble with the IRS. All those donors..."
People nearby exchanged glances, their hushed whispers creating a small pocket of silence around us. I could practically feel their pity pressing in from all sides, suffocating in its intensity.
"Everyone's watching," she whispered, so softly I almost missed it. "They all think I'm just the scattered girl who can't get anything right."
"That's not true," I insisted, though I knew those words wouldn't reach her, not when she was spiraling like this. "You've organized this entire event."
Something in her expression hardened then—not with determination, but with a terrible finality. I recognized it from court cases when I knew I'd lost a client's trust.
She turned on her heel without another word, her movement so sudden I nearly lost my balance reaching for her. The crowd between us seemed to part and then close again as she wove through it with desperate purpose.
"Rebekah, wait!" Lucy called from somewhere to my left, her voice cutting through the ambient noise of the fundraiser.
I pushed forward, trying to follow Rebekah's retreating form. She nearly collided with Marcus by the sound booth, sidestepped an elderly couple examining auction items, and then burst through the main entrance, the heavy door swinging wildly behind her.
"Goddammit," I cursed under my breath, half a step behind her but already knowing I wouldn't catch her. The rational part of my brain knew she needed space, but everything else in me screamed to follow her, to not let her carry this shame alone.
Just as I reached the door, a volunteer with a clipboard intercepted me, their face pinched with concern.
"Mr. Wright, we have a problem with the raffle prizes—someone mislabeled the gift certificates, and people are getting confused about values."
I tried to step around them. "Not now—"
"And the microphone is jammed," another voice added, this one belonging to a teenager I vaguely recognized as part of the tech crew. "We can't make any announcements."
More people converged, their problems suddenly urgent, their voices overlapping. I gritted my teeth, torn between my responsibility to the event and my need to follow Rebekah. Through the glass panels of the entrance doors, I caught a glimpse of her bright dress as she rushed across the parking lot.
"Mr. Wright? What should we do about the donation issues? People are asking questions."
My heart pounded in my chest as I watched her disappear from view. She was gone, and I couldn't do a damn thing about it—not until I sorted out this mess that was rapidly spiraling around me.
"She needs you," a quiet voice inside me insisted. But so did fifty other people in this room, people who had donated time and money to a cause we'd promised to champion.
I swallowed the bitter taste of helplessness.
"Marcus!" I barked, gesturing sharply toward the teenager with the microphone. "Handle the sound system issue. You know your way around tech better than anyone."
Marcus nodded, his usual stoicism replaced by alert determination. "Got it, boss."
"Lucy," I continued, pivoting to where she stood wringing her hands, "reorganize the raffle station. Bring Marie to help if you need another set of hands."
Lucy's eyes darted toward the door where Rebekah had vanished. "But shouldn't someone—"
"I'll handle Rebekah," I cut in, softening my tone slightly. "But first we need to get this place under control."
Dwight appeared at my elbow, guitar case still slung across his back. "What can I do, man?"
"Run interference. Field questions, direct people to the right booths, keep things moving." I clasped his shoulder. "Just... keep the plates spinning until I can figure out this donation documentation crisis."
As they dispersed, I scanned the room for a familiar face, someone I could trust. My gaze settled on Patricia Coleman, who was still by the donation table, examining Rebekah's documentation with a deep frown.
"Ms. Coleman," I called, striding over to her. "We need to discuss how to rectify this situation."
She looked up, her expression severe but not unkind. "Mr. Wright, I appreciate your position, but this is a serious regulatory issue."
"I understand that," I said, lowering my voice. "But there must be a solution that doesn't involve shutting down this entire fundraiser. These people have worked too hard, and the community center needs these funds."
Patricia sighed, removing her glasses. "The problem isn't just the lack of proper receipts. It's that donors have been told their contributions are tax-deductible without the proper documentation to support that claim. That creates liability for everyone involved."
"What if we could create the proper documentation now? We have all the information—names, amounts, dates. We could issue official receipts retroactively."
She hesitated. "It's highly irregular..."
"But not impossible," I pressed. "Please. There has to be a way forward that doesn't punish the community center for what was clearly an innocent mistake."
Before she could respond, Lucy reappeared, anxiety radiating from her petite frame.
"Is she going to be okay?" she asked quietly. "Rebekah, I mean. I've never seen her so... devastated."
The image of Rebekah's face—devastation replacing her usual vibrant confidence—flashed painfully in my mind. Her final words echoed: I ruined everything.
"She will be," I said, with more certainty than I felt. "We all make mistakes."
"But she was so hard on herself," Lucy pressed. "Like she'd failed some impossible test."
Because that's how she's always been treated, I thought, remembering what Rebekah had told me about her upbringing. Perfection expected, any mistake magnified into catastrophe.
I forced a reassuring smile. "We'll manage here. Once I sort out this donation issue, I can go find her."
Lucy didn't look convinced, but she nodded and returned to her station.
For the next forty minutes, I moved through the community center like a man underwater—present but separate, handling crisis after crisis while my thoughts remained fixed on Rebekah. The whispers about "donation irregularities" and "potential fraud" seemed to multiply, despite my efforts to contain them. Marcus fixed the microphone. Dwight charmed a group of elderly patrons, distracting them from the rumors. But the specter of financial impropriety hung over the event like a storm cloud.
Everything was falling apart.
Except the part that mattered most to me.