23. Dangerous Details
23
DANGEROUS DETAILS
MACKENZIE
Ten days before the Drake Enterprises Christmas Gala, I'm staring at an email from Alex that makes the heavy Seattle snowfall outside my office window feel significantly less festive:
FROM: Alexander Drake
TO: Mackenzie Gallo
SUBJECT: Latest Blog Post Draft
Mac - Saw your draft about executive compensation structures. While I support your mission for transparency, some of these numbers are problematic. The board is asking questions about information security. Can we discuss?
-A
PS: Keith is planning something called "Revolutionary Santa." Consider yourself warned.
Great.
Dumpster fire? Meet gasoline.
Because I’m sure nothing can go wrong when I’m planning the biggest tech industry gala of the season while hiding a secret exposé…with my CEO boyfriend starting to look over my shoulder .
Nothing at all.
"The ice sculpture demo just arrived," Lucia announces, dropping a stack of vendor contracts on my desk. "Though Keith is insisting we need a revolutionary version. Something about 'breaking free from frozen corporate constraints.'"
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Four Seasons ballroom, Seattle's heaviest snowfall in years transforms downtown into a winter wonderland. The massive space below is halfway decorated - towering holographic Christmas trees pulse with synchronized LED lights while interactive displays showcase Drake Enterprises' latest innovations. The marriage of tradition and technology should be perfect.
Just like everything else about this gala needs to be.
"The guest list hit four hundred," Lucia continues, scrolling through her tablet. "Every major tech CEO in the Pacific Northwest, plus that reporter from TechCrunch who's been investigating corporate leaks..."
My stomach twists. "Amelia Zegen's coming?"
"Along with half of Silicon Valley. Apparently, everyone wants to see the company that's actually changing tech culture." She eyes my laptop where two documents sit minimized: my latest blog post and the exposé that could destroy everything. "Speaking of change... those compensation numbers in your draft match last week's board meeting exactly."
I quickly close the window. "Just industry research."
"Really? Because?—"
The ballroom doors burst open, revealing Keith in what appears to be a Santa hat modified into a revolutionary beret, complete with LED trim.
"Comrade Gallo! Crisis in the holiday choir! HR rejected our rendition of 'Silent Night (Until We Rise)' and Brad's crying into the poinsettia arrangements! Also, the people demand access to the quarterly bonus spreadsheets for our next performance piece! "
"The people do not need confidential financial data for carol singing," Alex's voice carries from the doorway, making me jump. "Though I'm curious about how you accessed those spreadsheets in the first place."
Dark-haired and serious, he looks polished and gorgeous in a perfectly tailored suit, a light dusting of snow still melting on his shoulders. But there's tension around his eyes that makes my guilt spike.
"The revolution has its methods," Keith declares. "Also, Brad may have left his password on a Post-it again."
"Keith." Alex's CEO voice makes an appearance. "We talked about this. Information security isn't optional, even for the revolution."
"But how can we fight the system without data?" Keith brandishes his tinsel-decorated songbook. "The people's voices must have empirical support!"
"The people's voices can stick to approved metrics," Alex says firmly. "And traditional carols. We have enough concerns about internal leaks without adding musical numbers to the mix."
Keith retreats, but not before starting what sounds suspiciously like "The Twelve Days of Corporate Revolution" ("Five leaked spreadsheets...").
"Your revolutionary is getting creative with his data mining," Alex observes once we're alone. His hand finds the small of my back, but the touch feels weighted now. "Though not as creative as some blog posts I've seen recently."
"Alex—"
"The board's asking questions, Mac." He keeps his voice low, intimate. "About how certain information is finding its way into public discourse. About the level of detail in your posts."
"I thought you supported what I'm doing."
"I do." He turns me to face him. "You know I do. You're changing things, making real progress. But these numbers you're posting... they're raising red flags I can't ignore."
The guilt threatens to choke me. If he's this concerned about blog posts, how will he react to the exposé?
"I'll be more careful," I promise, and hate how easily the lie comes.
"Will you?" His eyes search mine. "Because your latest draft reads like our internal memos, Mac. That's not industry analysis anymore. That's?—"
"Mr. Drake?" Emma appears in the doorway. "The board is asking about information security protocols again. And Keith is trying to teach the interns something called 'Deck the Halls with Confidential Data.'"
I sigh. Alex nods at Emma, who walks away.
After a second, he speaks.
"Tonight," Alex says quietly. "Dinner at my place. We need to talk about this."
I should say no. Should focus on the gala, should rethink the exposé that's burning a hole in my laptop.
"Okay," I hear myself say instead, because I'm weak and he smells like snow and success and everything I'm about to lose.
His smile holds equal parts love and concern. "Seven o'clock. Unless Keith's choir needs more supervision?"
As if on cue, Keith's voice carries from the hallway: "On the first day of revolution, my true love gave to me... access to the salary databaseeee..."
Alex sighs, drops a quick kiss on my mouth, and heads out to handle what sounds like a crisis involving revolutionary garland placement and Brad's emotional support tinsel.
Through the ballroom windows, I watch Seattle's snow transform the city into something magical. The kind of magic I'm about to destroy with an exposé that goes far beyond leaked compensation data.
Later on, I tell my sister Lucia everything in my office .
"Mac." Lucia's voice is gentle. "You need to make a choice."
"I know." I sink into a chair, watching Alex through the glass doors as he confiscates what appears to be a USB drive decorated with holiday stickers from Keith's revolutionary choir. "I know."
But what if I've already made too many wrong ones?
Later that night at our agreed-upon dinner, Alex's penthouse smells like rosemary and wine and imminent disaster. The snow falls harder outside floor-to-ceiling windows that showcase Seattle's twinkling holiday lights, making everything feel intimate and dangerous.
"You're quiet tonight," he observes, pouring more wine. The kitchen island's marble is smooth and cool against my legs where I perch watching him cook. He's traded his CEO suit for dark jeans and another soft-looking sweater that makes him look casually edible. "Thinking about the blog?"
"Something like that."
He adds something to the pan that smells amazing. "Talk to me, Mac. What's really going on?"
"It's nothing." I take too large a sip of wine. "Just... thinking about changes. In the industry. In everything."
"Changes are good," he says carefully. "But method matters. Sources matter."
The guilt nearly chokes me.
"Alex..."
"I want to support you." He moves to stand between my knees, hands settling on my waist. "But lately... these posts, the level of detail. It's more than just industry critique now."
"Stop." I can't breathe around the weight of his concern.
"Why?" His thumb carves a path under my chin, but his eyes are serious. "Because you know I'm right? Because whatever you're working on is bigger than just blog posts?"
My heart stops. Does he know about the exposé?
"You don't understand."
"Then help me understand." He kisses me softly. "Because I love you, Mac. All of you. The critic and the champion. But something's changed. You're pushing boundaries that have consequences."
His kiss tastes like wine and worry and everything I'm about to destroy.
"I love you too," I whisper against his mouth, and the words shatter something in my chest. Because he doesn't know everything I am. Everything I'm planning.
The disaster isn't just his concern about the blog.
It's that I'm going to prove him right to worry.
And I still don't know how to stop.