26. The Last Dance
26
THE LAST DANCE
MACKENZIE
A lot can happen in a day. And I’m choosing to live through the most three difficult ones I ever have.
It’s been three days.
Three days of avoiding Alex's texts and calls, and now I'm staring at my closet like it holds the secrets to fixing everything I've thoroughly messed up.
Outside my bedroom window, Seattle's heaviest December snow in years transforms the city into a holiday card that definitely doesn't feature corporate exposés or complicated CEO relationships.
My phone buzzes with another gala update from the event team. In six hours, Drake Enterprises' biggest event of the year will showcase our cultural transformation to Seattle's entire tech industry.
Assuming I don't completely destroy everything with the truth first.
The exposé sits in my private workspace like a digital bomb, cursor blinking accusingly every time I open the document .
After days of agonizing, I've decided not to publish it. The problem is, I still need to tell Alex about its existence. About how I'd planned to expose everything, right up until I fell in love with the man I was supposed to take down.
"The red dress," Lucia announces from my doorway. "Definitely the red one."
"Too obvious." I eye the gown that matches the suit I wore when I first threw champagne at Alex. "Also possibly traumatic for the dry cleaning staff."
"Fine. The black one." She sorts through my options with the efficiency of someone who's been managing my wardrobe crises since high school. "Though you might want to focus less on fashion and more on why you're hiding from your boyfriend."
"I'm not hiding." I am absolutely hiding. "I'm working out how I’m going to?—“
My phone buzzes. Alex again:
ALEX: Your office is suspiciously empty for someone coordinating tonight's gala. Unless you're staging another coup with Keith?
KEITH (group chat): COMRADE GALLO! The revolutionary choir needs your approval for our festive rendition of "All I Want for Christmas is Corporate Equality"!
brAD (group chat): The wellness journal suggests avoiding revolutionary carols during high-stress events. Also, has anyone seen my emotional support tinsel?
"The emerald silk," Lucia decides, pulling out a gown that somehow matches Alex's eyes exactly. "And maybe actually talk to him before the gala? Instead of hiding at our restaurant while inhaling your weight in pasta?"
"I wasn't?—"
A car horn outside interrupts my denial. Through my window, I spot Alex's distinctive black Range Rover idling in the snow .
Oh no.
"That's..." Lucia peers out. "Isn't that?—"
"Hide me."
"You're forty-two."
"Exactly. Old enough to know better than to face this conversation in sweatpants and yesterday's messy bun."
The doorbell rings. Because of course it does.
"Ms. Gallo?" Alex's voice carries through the intercom. "We need to talk about why you're avoiding me. And possibly why Keith keeps sending me revolutionary Christmas carol lyrics for approval."
Lucia grins. "Want me to tell him you're not home?"
"Yes."
"Too late." She hits the buzzer. "Come on up! She's having a fashion crisis!"
“Snitch.”
"Think of it as sister-mandated intervention."
I have exactly forty-five seconds to either escape through the window (unlikely in sweatpants) or face Alex looking like I've been pounding down carbs and avoiding adult conversations (accurate but unfortunate).
The knock comes just as I'm seriously considering the window option.
"Mac?" His voice through the door makes my heart do that stupid flutter thing. "Either let me in or I'm giving Keith complete creative control over the gala entertainment."
"You wouldn't."
"Try me. He's already written something called 'Jingle Bell Corporate Hell.’”
I open the door because the alternative is probably Keith teaching Seattle's tech elite to sing about proletarian holiday spirit.
A stone-jawed Alex fills my doorway in a perfectly tailored suit that definitely doesn't make me regret my current outfit choices. Snowflakes dust his shoulders, and his expression suggests he's equally amused and concerned by my obvious avoidance techniques.
"Nice sweatpants," he says dryly.
"Nice timing." I gesture at my general disaster state. "I was just about to?—"
"Hide at your family's restaurant again?" His eyes catch on the emerald dress Lucia's still holding. "Though apparently not before choosing a gala outfit that matches my eyes. Subtle."
"I'll just..." Lucia edges toward the door. "Go help Nonna with... anything that's not this conversation."
She escapes, leaving me alone with six feet two inches of concerned CEO and my complete lack of emotional preparedness.
"So," Alex closes the door, his movements deliberate. "Want to tell me why you're avoiding me? Or should we discuss Keith's proposal for a 'dance revolution' at the gala?"
"He's what?"
"Apparently it involves synchronized protest movements and something called the 'equity shuffle.' Emma's having an aneurysm trying to prevent him from teaching it to the board members."
Despite everything, I laugh. The sound seems to relax something in Alex's shoulders.
"Mac." He steps closer, and suddenly my apartment feels very small. "What's going on? You've been avoiding me since that blog post. If this is about the information security concerns?—"
"It's not." It absolutely is. "I just?—"
His kiss cuts off whatever lie I was about to tell. His hands cup my face, and for a moment I forget about exposés and secrets and everything except how right this feels.
"I miss you," he murmurs against my mouth. "Even if you are wearing sweatpants with moth-holes in them. ”
"They're comfortable sweatpants."
"They have pasta sauce on them."
"Occupational hazard of hiding at an Italian restaurant."
He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest where I'm pressed against him. "Come to dinner before the gala. Just us. No revolutionary carols or corporate politics."
I should say no. Should maintain distance until I figure out how to tell him about the exposé.
"Okay," I hear myself say instead, because apparently my self-preservation instinct takes vacations.
His smile could power the city through Seattle's next blackout.
"Good." He kisses me again, deeper this time. "Though maybe change first? Not that the sweatpants aren't charming, but?—"
My phone buzzes with another gala update. Then his does. Then both our emails chime with what's probably another crisis involving Keith's revolutionary holiday spirit.
"Rain check on dinner," he sighs. "Apparently Keith's teaching the catering staff something called 'Santa's Social Justice Shuffle.'"
"Go." I push him toward the door. "Save the gala from revolutionary dance numbers. I'll see you tonight."
He pauses in the doorway, snow still melting on his shoulders. "Wear the emerald dress."
"Trying to coordinate our outfits, Mr. Drake?"
"Trying to properly appreciate my corporate culture consultant, Ms. Gallo." His eyes darken. "Even if she is avoiding me."
He leaves before I can respond, which is probably good because my brain short-circuits every time he looks at me like that.
Six hours later, I'm watching Seattle's tech elite fill the Four Seasons ballroom while trying very hard not to think about how thoroughly I'm about to destroy everything. The emerald dress feels like armor, though against what I'm not sure anymore.
"Keith's revolutionary choir is staging a protest performance by the ice sculpture," Lucia updates, appearing with champagne. "Something about 'frozen assets' and 'melting corporate barriers.'"
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, snow falls on downtown Seattle like nature's attempting to make this disaster more cinematic.
The ballroom glows with thousands of lights, each carefully programmed to showcase Drake Enterprises' transformation.
The transformation I helped create while planning to expose everything.
The transformation that actually worked.
The transformation I might destroy anyway.
"More champagne!" Lucia decides, correctly reading my spiral. "Also, Roberto's latest baby shower email just arrived. Want me to delete it?"
I grab her phone instead, because apparently four glasses of champagne means I'm ready to handle my ex-husband's happiness.
FROM: Roberto Sullivan
TO: Mackenzie Gallo
SUBJECT: Baby Shower RSVP?
Mac,
Katie's really hoping you'll come. She says you're her "career inspiration" and wants to "bridge any awkwardness." The shower theme is "New Beginnings" - ironic, right?
Hope you're well. Though according to tech industry gossip, you're more than well. At least according to your colleague Keith's viral tweets about your "revolutionary romance."
-R
PS: Katie's registry is all organic, sustainable baby item s
"Delete it," I decide, reaching for more champagne. "Also, remind me to fire Keith."
"For the revolutionary choir or the viral tweets about your love life?"
"Both. Also the fact that he's currently teaching Seattle's tech elite something called the 'equity electric slide.'"
Through the crowd, I spot Alex talking to board members. He catches my eye across the room, and for a moment I forget about exposés and ex-husbands and everything except how amazing he looks in a tux with a pocket square that matches my dress exactly.
"Drink," Lucia orders, pressing another champagne flute into my hand. "Then maybe actually talk to your boyfriend instead of staring at him like he's dessert?"
"I'm not?—"
"Ms. Gallo?" Emma appears with her tablet. "Mr. Drake needs the login for your workspace. Something about reviewing the cultural impact metrics before his speech?"
"Tell him it's—" I start, then stop because six glasses of champagne definitely shouldn't make important decisions. "Actually, I'll text it to him."
I pull out my phone, typing quickly:
ME: Workspace login: MGallo_Drake_2024
Password: ChampagneRevenge2024
I hit send before I can overthink it.
Alex's reply comes immediately:
ALEX: Revolutionary password choice. Though I prefer your current methods of corporate criticism
I watch him disappear into his office, probably to review metrics that definitely don't include my planned takedown of his company.
Everything's fine.
Totally fine.
"More champagne?" Lucia offers.
"God, yes."
Two hours and several glasses of champagne later, I'm watching Keith teach Seattle's tech elite the "Binary Bunny Hop" while trying to remember why I'm suddenly anxious about something.
"The revolutionary choir's next number is called 'Deck the Halls with Living Wages,'" Lucia updates, appearing with more champagne. "Also, Alex still hasn't returned from his office. Want me to send a search party?"
Alex.
Office.
Login.
Oh no.
OH NO.
"The exposé," I whisper in horror. "It's in my workspace. In the hidden folder marked 'Personal Projects.'"
"The what in the where now?"
"The exposé!" I grab her arm, nearly spilling both our drinks. "The one about tech industry corruption! The one that would destroy everything! It's in my workspace and I just gave Alex the password!"
"The same workspace he's been accessing for the past two hours?"
"Oh god." I scan the ballroom, but Alex is nowhere in sight. "I have to?—"
"Ms. Gallo?" Brad appears, clutching his wellness journal. "Keith wants to know if you'll join the revolutionary conga line? He says it's a metaphor for breaking corporate chains through synchronized movement."
"Not now, Brad!"
I push through the crowd, hearing snippets of conversation that definitely include the words "Drake Enterprises" and "transformation" and "revolutionary holiday spirit."
The hallway outside feels colder, emptier .
Snow falls harder against the windows, transforming Seattle into something out of a holiday movie. Except instead of romantic reconciliation, I'm about to star in "How to Lose a CEO in Ten Seconds."
I find him on the terrace, snow collecting on his shoulders as he stares at his phone. The screen glows with familiar words - my words. The exposé that could destroy everything we've built.
"Alex."
He doesn't turn. "Interesting reading material, Ms. Gallo. Though I have to admit, the title needs work. 'Tech Industry Corruption: The Truth Behind the Glass Walls'? Bit obvious, don't you think?"
"I can explain?—"
"Can you?" Now he does turn, and the look in his now ice-cold eyes makes me wish he hadn't. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like I just got played by the best in the business. Congratulations, by the way. The whole 'fall for your target' angle? Brilliant strategy."
"That's not?—"
"What happened?" His laugh holds no humor. "Because this—" he gestures at his phone "—is dated three months ago. Right around when you started 'falling' for me. Tell me, was the champagne incident planned too? Or just convenient timing?"
"Alex, please?—"
"You know what's funny?" Snow collects in his hair, on his shoulders, making him look like something out of a fairy tale. Except this isn't the kind with happy endings. "I actually convinced myself you were different. That maybe love and success could coexist. That maybe my father was wrong about keeping barriers between business and pleasure."
"I didn't publish it."
"No." His voice gives Seattle’s month of snow a run for its money. "You just wrote it. Planned it. Used every moment of trust to gather evidence. Tell me, was any of it real? Or was I just another ‘tech bro’ to take down?"
The truth sticks in my throat.
Because how do I explain that it started as revenge but became something else? That somewhere between champagne and revolution, I fell for the man I was supposed to destroy?
"I love you," I whisper, but the words feel inadequate against the weight of betrayal in his eyes.
"Loved the story, you mean." He straightens his jacket, CEO mask sliding into place. "The expose. The perfect takedown of another tech leader who dared to trust someone."
Through the terrace doors, I can hear Keith's revolutionary choir starting another number. Something about holiday bonuses and corporate equality.
"I chose you," I try again. "I didn't publish it. I chose?—"
"No." He steps back, each movement deliberate. "You chose to write it. To plan it. To use every moment of vulnerability as ammunition. The fact that you didn't publish it just means you got caught first."
"Alex—"
"Goodbye, Ms. Gallo." He heads for the door, then pauses. "Oh, and don't worry about your job. Unlike some people, I understand the difference between personal and professional betrayal."
He leaves me there in the snow, Keith's revolutionary carols providing an ironically festive soundtrack to my complete disaster.
Through the windows, I watch him return to the party. Watch him smile and network and play the perfect CEO while my heart shatters in the December storm.
My phone buzzes - another baby shower email from Roberto. Something about "new chapters" and "fresh starts" and everything I just thoroughly destroyed.
Somewhere inside, Keith's choir starts another number. Something about holiday magic and corporate revolution and all the things I thought I could have.
All the things I just lost.
Snow falls harder, but I barely feel it. Because sometimes the worst disasters aren't the ones you see coming.
Sometimes they're the ones you create yourself.