17. Parker
PARKER
I don’t trip walking the red carpet. That’s the first miracle of the night.
I keep my chin lifted, my smile bright, and my steps smooth in the heels Harrison insisted on buying me to match the gown.
I can feel the subtle weight of eyes, flashbulbs, curated curiosity—VT Global’s gala is the event tonight.
There are camera crews, influencers, industry powerhouses. Clients. Enemies. Frenemies.
It’s a show, and I’m one of the main acts.
The dress is a deep green satin that catches light like water, clinging in the right places and cascading in all the others. My makeup is elegant, and my hair is curled, pinned, and sprayed into submission. I look like someone who belongs here.
Which is wild, because I absolutely do not.
There’s a tight coil in my chest that hasn’t let up all day. Not when I got my hair done. Not when I was zipping up this dress. Not even when Lyra told me I looked like “a very nice mermaid” and Levi gave me a solemn high five like I was going into battle.
Because I’m not just managing a gala tonight. I’m also keeping a secret. And it’s getting harder to breathe around it.
The second I step inside the venue, my senses are swallowed whole. It’s everything I imagined—and more.
The theme is “Elegance & Spectacle.” Translation?
Upscale circus. There are towering floral centerpieces shaped like spinning wheels and red velvet drapes framing golden light.
The string quartet is suspended on swings above the main floor, and the catering staff wear crisp black with subtle nods to ringmaster chic—striped lapels, satin gloves, bold red lipstick.
A fire breather performs near the grand entrance, timed with the crescendo of music. Somewhere to the left, a contortionist folds herself into a gilded hoop like human origami. And in the center of it all? The stage.
Circular. Elevated. Lit from below like a spotlight from hell. I’ll be speaking there later. Just a short welcome message. A few words about animal welfare, our charity partnership, and a cute little pun about “rescuing animals and reputations.”
It was Jack’s suggestion. I almost choked when he said it.
The whole space hums with movement. Conversation. Deliberate glamour. Even the air smells expensive—vanilla and smoke and something slightly sweet that makes me think of caramel apples.
I grip the clutch in my hand and breathe through my nose.
I should be ecstatic. It’s perfect. This is what we worked for.
We raised half a million dollars before dinner even started.
Bryce Aoki’s endorsement got us three new donor families.
The head of the LA Animal Coalition kissed me on the cheek and whispered, “Thank you for making this beautiful.”
And somehow, even Icon PR showed up.
Smug and sleek in their statement heels and designer suits, they walked through the doors like they owned the place—late, of course, and just in time for their names to be read aloud as “major contributors.”
Assholes.
Still, they showed. Which means the gossip about the leaked elevator audio hasn’t scared them off. Which means VT is back on top.
Which means…I should feel on top too. But I don’t.
Because I’m pregnant. And I don’t know who the father is.
And I’m standing in the middle of a glittering circus with a diamond earring poking into my ear and a fresh layer of setting spray on my face, and all I can think is What the hell am I doing?
I make it through the first half hour with a glass of ginger ale in my hand and a lot of tight-lipped smiles.
I’m nauseous, but not obviously so. I’ve learned how to fake that I’m listening.
I nod at donors, thank them for their generosity, and avoid Gavin’s gaze every time he looks my way from across the room.
He’s in a perfectly tailored tux, all shadow and jawline and control. Jack’s not far, talking to a tech CEO near the bar. Harrison is surveying the room like he’s keeping it safe with sheer presence alone.
My bosses. My lovers. My maybe-baby-daddies.
I’m in hell. Beautiful, five-star catered, paparazzi-studded hell.
I make it all the way to the swing-quartet introduction before I seriously consider throwing up behind the velvet curtain. Not because anything’s gone wrong. No, everything is—frustratingly—perfect.
The transitions between stage moments are tight. The catering is timed to the second. The themed cocktails are being photographed by every influencer in the room. People are genuinely wowed.
Bryce Aoki said, “This is insane, Parker. Like…this is art.”
Which is a nice thing to hear when you’re wondering if you’re about to lose everything. But it only makes the pressure worse.
I’m dizzy. Not just from the lighting, or the noise, or the fact that someone decided stilt walkers were appropriate for cocktail hour. It’s the secret. Sitting in my gut. Just behind my navel. Like something coiled and heavy and gathering force.
And it’s all I can think about.
The contortionist is now performing near the staircase, bent into a shape that defies physics and modesty. Everyone claps. I smile politely, sip my ginger ale, and mentally calculate how many weeks I am.
Five. Maybe six.
Too early to show, but too late to pretend it isn’t happening. Too late to blame hormones or stress or exhaustion. I took three tests. Three. Two more than necessary.
I haven’t told anyone. Not even my mom.
I keep thinking maybe if I wait long enough, the universe will just…figure it out for me. Send me a sign. Put a little blinking arrow over the head of the right man like a Sims game. But all I’ve gotten so far is tight dresses and tighter nerves.
“Parker!” someone calls, waving me over.
It’s a donor. Mid-fifties. Wealthy. Smells like leather and truffle oil. He’s already had three glasses of something golden. “I wanted to say—just beautiful. Really. Top-tier. And the rescue partnership? Brilliant move.”
“Thank you,” I say, forcing my best gala-appropriate smile. “We’re thrilled to support the expansion.”
“I have a buddy in Marin with a Doberman that eats six hundred dollars in vet bills a month. I told him—‘next year, you’re writing a check!’” He laughs. I nod. Someone claps again nearby.
A girl in a sequined trapeze outfit does a slow somersault in midair from one red silk ribbon to another. The crowd gasps.
I excuse myself with a polite, “So glad you’re enjoying yourself,” and slip away before I say something truly unhinged like I’m going to vomit on your shoes. I find a quiet corner, ducking behind a floral display near the mirrored hallway that leads to the lounge.
The hallway is the only part of this place that’s normal. The rest is all illusion.
Golden lions on pedestals—actually, it’s people dressed and contorted to look like lions, but the effect is incredible.
A mirrored bar that spins like a carousel.
One guest told me they got lost trying to find the restroom and walked through a hallway of fog and lights that felt like a dream sequence.
I didn’t correct them—it was a dream sequence.
That’s what I called it in the planning notes.
It’s elegant and spectacular, but what it really feels like is my life. A circus. Unpredictable. Dangerous.
I pull out my phone and check the time. The speeches start in thirty minutes. Just before dessert. I have to go up there. Smile. Thank everyone. Look proud and competent and totally not like someone who’s been lying by omission to three of the most powerful men she’s ever known.
I open my messages. There’s a new one from my mom: Kids are asleep. Hope the gala is incredible. You look amazing. Don’t forget to eat something.
I stare at the screen, and I want to cry. Or scream. Or go home, throw on sweatpants, curl up with Lyra and Levi, and pretend none of this is happening.
But instead, I put the phone away, fix my lipstick, and re-enter the room. Because that’s what always I do. Smile. Balance. Juggle fire. Like the good little acrobat I am.
They dim the lights before the speech. I’m standing just offstage, behind a pair of velvet curtains the color of ripe plums, one hand wrapped around a cue card I don’t need, the other pressed against my lower back like it’ll steady me.
The fire breather finishes his set with a roar of heat that sends gasps echoing through the crowd. Then silence. A single spotlight swings to the center of the stage—circular, gold-trimmed, gleaming.
Someone announces my name. Applause.
I walk out, heart pounding so hard I swear they’ll hear it louder than the microphone.
The lights blind me for a second. I can’t see the crowd.
Only shapes. Only shadows. Jack and Harrison near the front.
Gavin, standing near the edge of the room with his hands in his pockets like he’s not the reason three other CEOs and several celebrities are here tonight.
“Thank you,” I begin. “When we started planning this gala, the goal was simple. To raise funds to support the new rescue expansion. Give people a reason to say yes to something good. What I didn’t expect was just how enthusiastically everyone would show up.”
Soft laughter. The good kind.
I keep going. Words flow. Rehearsed. Polished. I hit every note. Thank the right sponsors. Reference the circus theme with a quick joke about balancing acts and juggling flaming swords. Everyone laughs.
I don’t look at any of them too long. Not at my guys. Not the clients. Not the board. If I look too closely, something in me will break.
Instead, I close with, “Tonight, we raised enough to build the rescue wing—and fund its first two years of operation. That’s because of all of you. So, from the bottom of my heart…thank you.”
More applause. Louder this time. I smile. Bow my head slightly. Step off the stage like my legs aren’t made of jelly.
Backstage, someone hands me a flute of champagne. I wave it off and reach for the ginger ale I stashed earlier. My hand trembles so badly I almost spill it.
I need out. Now.
There’s a lounge on the second floor—softly lit, velvet couches, curtains drawn. Technically it’s a VIP space, but right now it’s empty. Everyone’s downstairs basking in the success I orchestrated.
I slip inside and shut the door behind me. Quiet. Finally. Except I’m not alone.
Jack looks up from the couch, where he’s nursing a scotch and loosening his tie.
Harrison leans against the wall, one hand in his pocket, jacket draped over the back of a nearby chair.
Gavin’s at the window, staring out over the city with that unreadable expression he wears when he’s two seconds from throwing a press release or starting a war.
They all turn when I enter. And just like that, I lose it.
Not the screaming, crying kind of losing it. Not the collapse. Just…the unraveling. My mask slips. My smile dies. The adrenaline drains out of me and leaves nothing but truth.
“You were incredible,” Jack says, voice low.
“You killed your speech,” Harrison adds.
Gavin turns, and when his eyes meet mine, I feel like he sees everything. All of it.
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
Then I try again.
“I’m pregnant.”
The words drop like lead. No preamble. No soft landing. Just a truth I can’t carry alone anymore. And then I wait—for the silence to crack open and swallow me whole.