37. Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Seven
AVA
I t’s been almost a week since Jackson’s team clinched the Finals, but the house still feels like it’s vibrating with that win.
Or maybe that’s just me. Nerves, exhaustion.
Take your pick.
I lean over the kitchen sink, bracing both hands on the counter as I breathe through another wave of nausea. It’s not overwhelming. Just persistent. A faint pressure that refuses to fully settle. A constant clench in my stomach I keep blaming on stress.
The gala is today. I’m allowed to feel off.
By 3:30, I’ve already done four laps around the ballroom.
The sponsor signage is crisp and the place settings polished. The silent auction tables look like something out of a catalog. The lighting crew is adjusting the last spotlight over the stage, and backup wine has arrived, so I can finally stop worrying the bar will run dry before dessert.
Jenna moves through the room like she’s been mainlining espresso since sunrise, calling directions with one hand and clutching a checklist in the other.
“You’re incredible,” I call after her.
She lifts the clipboard in salute without looking back.
I head for the side of the stage, glancing over the final run-of-show taped to a podium. My speech is printed and folded neatly in my clutch, but I already know every word. I’ve been whispering it to myself all week: over my tea, in the car, in the shower.
My palms sweat anyway.
I smooth a hand down the front of my black satin dress. The fabric skims my frame, sleeveless with a high neckline and a low V in the back.
The ballroom doors are closed for now. The Open Pages logo glows softly on the wall behind the stage, framed by warm lighting and indigo floral arrangements. Tables are dressed and waiting. The quartet is rehearsing again, just out of view, their notes floating like a lullaby.
This is really happening.
I’m standing at the center of something my team and I poured ourselves into. Weeks and weeks of planning, stress, and impossible hours. And even through the nerves curling at the base of my spine, I feel it: that quiet, certain pride beneath the noise.
I turn as the side entrance creaks open, and Jackson steps in.
And suddenly, my mind blanks completely.
He’s in a perfectly cut, classic black tux, the bow tie snug at his throat. Broad shoulders fill out the jacket like it was tailored just for him.
He’s holding two coffees and scanning the room until his eyes land on me.
Goosebumps lift across my arms, heat blooming low in my stomach. His piercing blue eyes meet mine, steady and sure, and for a second, everything else, every detail, every checklist, and every worry, just... disappears.
He walks toward me, eyes locked on mine, and everything else fades.
“Wow,” he murmurs. “You look—” He exhales. “Okay, yeah. You look unreal.”
He hands me a cup. “Extra shot. You earned it.”
I take it with both hands. “Thank you.”
He glances around the room. “Is this what controlled panic looks like?”
“Very controlled,” I say, smiling faintly. “So far no one’s cried in a storage closet. That I know of.”
His gaze softens. “You okay?”
“I will be. Just need to get through the next… seven hours.”
“You’ll crush it.”
I nod, because I want to believe that. Because having him here makes it easier to believe that.
He leans in, voice low. “When do I get to kiss you in front of rich people?”
At exactly five o’clock, the ballroom doors open and the first wave of VIP guests begins to arrive: board members, corporate sponsors, foundation reps in sleek dresses and pressed suits. Smiles, handshakes, air kisses. A thousand tiny social cues I’ve practiced but never quite mastered.
Jenna hovers near the entrance with her clipboard and wine charm smile, while Jackson lingers by the auction tables, perfectly in his element. Quiet, grounded, unbothered by the crowd but undeniably present. Every time I glance over, someone’s recognizing him and stopping to talk to him.
I drift between groups, answering questions about the literacy programs, offering snippets about Open Pages’ newest initiatives, thanking people for coming like it’s easy. Like my heart’s not racing underneath this dress.
The clock ticks toward 5:45, and before long, Jenna gives me a nod from across the room.
It’s time.
My stomach flips, but I don’t let it show. I hand my coffee off to a passing staff member, smooth my palms discreetly down the skirt of my gown, and step onto the small stage at the front of the room.
The lighting shifts slightly. It’s just enough to signal attention without blinding me.
Conversations dim. Chairs turn. I catch a few familiar faces near the front: our lead sponsor, the head of the literacy council, and Jackson, standing just beside the auction tables, his hands casually in his pockets as he watches me.
A hush falls.
I take a breath and begin.
“Good evening. I’m Ava Monroe, founder and director of Open Pages.”
At first, my voice sounds stronger than I feel, but once I find my rhythm, the nerves melt into focus.
I speak about the organization’s mission.
How literacy builds more than just reading skills, how it opens doors, changes futures, roots communities.
I thank donors and partners. I talk about the little girl I met last fall who hugged her first book like it was treasure.
I don’t look at my notes once.
“Thank you for believing in us, and for believing in the power of stories.”
The applause is instant.
Warm. Real.
I step down from the stage to a flood of congratulations: board members shaking my hand, guests saying things like “moving” and “inspiring.”
Someone calls it “elegant and heartfelt,” and Jenna squeezes my hand so tight it hurts.
“You nailed it,” she whispers. “Seriously. You were glowing up there.”
I laugh under my breath, flushed and relieved. “I thought I was going to throw up on the first sentence.”
“Well, you didn’t.” She grins. “You owned it.”
Across the room, I catch Jackson’s eye again. He doesn’t rush over, doesn’t make a scene. He just holds my gaze and gives me a subtle nod. Quiet, proud.
And somehow, that lands deeper than anything else.
It’s 6:12 when I see him.
Brad’s just inside the main entrance, schmoozing with a sponsor. His posture is relaxed, polished in that performative way he’s always been good at. Charcoal gray suit, crisp shirt, hands tucked casually into his pockets like he owns the room.
He’s not looking at me. Not yet.
But I feel the shift in my stomach anyway.
I figured he’d be here. His name was on the guest list, clear as day. I’d stared at it for a full minute before telling Jenna to leave it. I wasn’t going to look weak by pretending I couldn’t handle his presence.
Still, seeing him here sends a chill down my spine.
I turn away before he can catch my eye.
Jenna appears at my elbow a second later, murmuring, “Do you want me to—”
“No,” I say quickly. “He’s not worth it.”
She nods once, brisk and approving. “Then let him blend into the wallpaper.”
I exhale slowly. “Exactly.”
Across the room, Jackson meets my eyes, his gaze going from me to Brad and back again. He doesn’t ask anything aloud, but his expression shifts: alert now, protective in that quiet way he has.
I give him the smallest nod, and he relaxes again.
By the time dinner plates are cleared and fresh coffee hits the tables, the room has settled into that golden-hour hum: conversation flowing easily, wine glasses half full, laughter blooming in pockets across the floor.
At 6:45, the lights dim and the projector flickers to life. A hush ripples through the crowd as the spotlight video begins. It’s only three minutes long, but it lands like a stone skipping across still water.
Clips roll of kids turning pages with quiet wonder, parents at library events, and teachers sharing how donated books transformed their classrooms. One little boy grins at the camera, proudly sounding out a sentence: “I can read this one all by myself.”
By the end, a few people are discreetly dabbing their eyes. I’m one of them.
The lights ease back up to warm levels, and for a breath, no one speaks.
Then, applause. Genuine, full, echoing softly off the ballroom walls.
Jackson finds me near the edge of the crowd as dessert is served: coffee, petite lemon tarts, and chocolate mousse so perfect it should be illegal. Jackson slides a plate in front of me and sits beside me.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
I nod, still a little wrecked from the video. “I wasn’t ready to cry over a six-year-old reading a library book, but here we are.”
“You’re killing it out there,” he says quietly.
I smile and lean my shoulder into his just enough to feel it. “Thanks for being here.”
“Always.”
Jackson gently taps his fingers against mine, then stands to grab something at the bar.
I stay seated, just for a moment. Around me, laughter swells, forks clink, music hums. I let myself breathe.
That’s when I see him.
Brad’s over by the silent auction tables, laughing with one of our mid-tier donors like they’re old friends.
It’s the same laugh I’ve heard at a hundred networking events — calculated, a little too loud, meant to be overheard.
The donor’s smile is polite but distant, her eyes already drifting toward the dessert table.
My shoulders stiffen, pulse kicking up. Not fear, just that familiar unease. Like bracing for a wave you’ve survived but will never trust.
He breaks away from the group and heads in my direction, drink in hand, smile perfectly intact.
My grip locks around the edge of the table, knuckles whitening before I force them to relax.
“Ava.”
The sound of my name from his mouth sends a chill spidering down my spine.
I look up slowly, spine straight, expression neutral.
“I just wanted to say congratulations.” Brad smiles smoothly. “This whole thing turned out better than I expected.”
I don’t respond.
He takes a sip, eyes narrowing just enough that I notice. “A few people here were surprised when my company pulled funding. I told them you’d land on your feet… though I’ll admit, I didn’t think it would be this fast.”
I breathe once, steady. “We’re doing just fine.”
His gaze flicks briefly toward the bar. “Well, having a boyfriend with money and name recognition certainly doesn’t hurt.”
I take a slow sip of water, my gaze drifting past him to the far end of the room, making it clear he’s not worth my focus.
He leans in, voice pitched low. “For the record? I didn’t want to pull the funding. But you left me no choice.”
I blink once. “This isn’t about you anymore. It hasn’t been for a long time.”
His smile twitches, but I’m already turning to join Jackson at the bar when I hear it.
“Bitch.”
It’s low, meant to slide under the noise of the room, but it lands like a slap. My pulse spikes, heat rushing to my face. I stop, turning back slowly.
“What did you just say?”
Brad’s smile falters. “Nothing.”
Jackson’s there before I can say more, setting a drink on the table beside me. His gaze locks on Brad, calm but unflinching.
“You’ve had enough of her time. Leave. Or I’ll walk you out, and I check harder than I skate.”
For a second, Brad holds his ground, his jaw working like he’s searching for something to say.
His gaze flicks past Jackson like he’s looking for backup, but no one’s paying him any attention.
Then Jackson’s stare gets to him — steady, unblinking, impossible to hold.
He mutters something under his breath and heads for the exit.
As he passes, the same donor he’d been laughing with a few minutes ago steps past him without a glance and comes straight to me, smiling warmly.
“Ava, that was an incredible speech.”
“Thank you,” I say, meaning it.
Jackson offers me the drink, and I take it with a faint, shaky laugh. “I need this.”
“Figured you might.”
He studies me for a moment. “You okay?”
I nod, the corners of my mouth lifting. “Yeah. He doesn’t get to rattle me anymore.”
He nods, his fingers brushing mine as he takes my hand, and together we turn back toward the stage—just as Jenna takes the mic to call final bids on the silent auction.
There’s a playful round of cheers from the back of the room, where a few guests are still hovering over bid sheets like it’s a competitive sport.
Five minutes later, we start announcing the winners. A few people groan good-naturedly as they’re outbid. Others beam like they just won the lottery. I catch Jackson chuckling when someone fist-pumps over winning his signed hockey stick.
And just like that, the energy shifts again. Lighter now. Celebratory.
The music kicks in. The lights soften. And slowly, the ballroom begins to slide from formal to festive.
Jenna appears beside me, grinning. “Want to know the number?”
“You already have it?”
She nods, eyes sparkling. “Total from tickets, sponsors, donations, and auction items combined… it’s just over two-fifty.”
For a second, I forget how to speak. Then I let out a stunned laugh. “You’re kidding.”
“Not even a little.” She nudges my arm. “You did it.”
No, we did it. But the pride blooming in my chest is impossible to ignore. All the sleepless nights. All the planning. All the pressure.
Worth it.
Jenna tilts her head. “Are you going to make him wait all night to dance with you?”
I glance at Jackson across the room, who’s already taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He catches my eye, smiles that slow, easy smile, and starts making his way toward me.
A moment later, he’s at my side, one hand slipping into mine, the other settling low on my back as he leans close. “You blew them away,” he says quietly, his breath warm against my temple. “Seriously. That was incredible.”
His words land somewhere deep, unexpected. I press my cheek to his shoulder, letting myself rest there for a moment. His familiar musky scent grounds me, calming the last of my nerves.
The music swells, and he shifts slightly, guiding me toward the floor. I follow without resistance.
As we step into the light, something shifts low in my abdomen. It’s a faint pull, not painful, just enough to catch my breath. The sensation lingers, a low, unfamiliar tension that makes my stomach flutter before it fades.
It’s probably just stress. Or fatigue. Or the four bites of dinner I managed all night.
I blink, steady myself, and breathe it away. Just the end of a very long day.
Jackson squeezes my hand, and I lean in, willing my body to fall in line.
Right now, all I want is this moment.
Just the music.
Just him.
Just us.