Chapter Thirty-Five Us
SUTTON
The next day, Jayce drives me to Romero Holdings for the presentation. My nerves are humming and it feels like there’s a steady stream of electricity buzzing beneath my skin.
Last night Jayce held me until I fell asleep. When I woke up, Jayce was already out of bed, standing by the window in gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt, his hair still messy from sleep as he spoke quietly on the phone.
The moment he noticed I was awake, he ended the call.
“Morning,” he said, his voice low and warm.
Before I could even sit up, he’d crossed the room and pressed a soft kiss to my lips. Coffee was already waiting on the nightstand, and my laptop was plugged in and fully charged.
“You forgot to charge it again,” he’d told me when I noticed.
Then he’d disappeared into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with a smoothie and a small bowl of fruit on a tray.
“Eat,” he told me, nudging the tray closer when I hesitated.
I’d tried to protest, shaking my head. “I can’t eat when I’m nervous.”
“You can today.”
Somehow, I had. As if his mere confidence that I could made it possible.
Now, as the car glides through downtown traffic, I sit in the passenger seat, gripping my folder a little too tightly.
The corporate tower rises in front of us, sleek glass and steel reflecting the pale morning sky.
It seems so imposing. My stomach twists and I tug at the hem of my black pencil skirt nervously.
Jayce pulls the car to the curb and looks over at me. He studies my face for a moment, like he can read every thought racing through my head.
“You’ve got this,” he tells me. “You know what you’re talking about. This is what you do. You’re going to do great.”
I look at him and manage a weak smile. “Thanks.”
He reaches over and grabs my hand, squeezing it. “Go kick some ass.”
That gets a chuckle out of me. “Okay, I will.”
He kisses my knuckles before letting me go. I climb out of the car and walk toward the building’s entrance. Once inside, I check in at the reception desk and I’m led up several floors to an executive conference room. Needing another minute before going inside, I duck into a nearby bathroom.
I cross to the sink and grip the edge of the marble counter, gazing into the mirror. My reflection stares back at me. Though my skirt and blazer are perfectly neat, I’m pale, wide-eyed, and have a thin sheen of sweat across my forehead. My chest rises and falls too fast.
Oh no.
My hair has come partially undone from the neat bun I had it in. The teal strands I worked so carefully to hide this morning have slipped free, spilling over the back of my neck and shoulders.
I swallow hard.
“Get it together, Sutton,” I whisper to my reflection.
My palms are damp. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like the sound is echoing through the quiet bathroom. I want to bite my nails so badly, but I resist the urge.
The presentation starts in five minutes.
Five.
Minutes.
I drag in a deep breath, trying to slow the spiral before it takes over completely. My lungs feel tight, like they’ve forgotten how to expand properly.
Not now. Please not now.
I close my eyes and press my fingertips to the cool marble counter, the smooth surface biting into my skin as I lean forward. The chill of it helps. It’s just enough to ground me for a second, but my chest is already tightening.
The panic is there, hovering on the edge of my mind. Waiting for the smallest crack.
My breathing starts to quicken.
Fuck! No, no, no.
Mom’s voice echoes in my head, sharp and polished.
Stand up straight, Sutton. People are watching.
My throat tightens.
Then I’m thinking of Dad.
Standing in that conference room, my vision tunneling and hands shaking… the silence and confusion on everyone’s faces… my dad stepping forward, taking over while I stood there frozen, humiliated, unable to breathe…
My stomach twists at the memories.
Colson’s smile in the cold, winter moonlight as he holds my hand and we run together in the snow, a part of me knowing we shouldn’t be outside, but we’re having too much fun…
My pulse spikes.
What if I fuck this up? What if I freeze? What if I can’t speak? What if…?
My chest squeezes tighter, air suddenly feeling thin.
No.
No, no, no.
I grip the edge of the counter harder, forcing myself to breathe.
Focus.
My stomach churns as the spiral tightens, panic clawing its way up my throat…until I stop it.
I think of last night with Jayce.
Breathe for me.
I think of the gentle pressure around my wrists. The careful knots. The feel of total security and safety.
My breathing slows. The panic is still there, but it isn’t swallowing me whole anymore. I inhale slowly through my nose, the cool marble still grounding me beneath my fingertips.
Then I straighten.
One breath.
Then another.
My reflection still looks nervous, but no longer like I’m about to fall apart.
“Okay,” I murmur quietly. “You can do this.”
I gather my hair and twist it back into place, securing the pins with steadier fingers. When I’m finished, I intentionally leave one thin teal strand loose, letting it fall visibly along my temple. Jayce loves when I let my teal show, and that helps give me confidence.
It’s a small reminder that I’m still me.
I smooth my jacket, square my shoulders, and take one last steadying breath before pushing open the bathroom door. The hallway outside is quiet, the muted hum of a busy office drifting through the air.
Feeling more confident, I make my way into the conference room.
It’s a large space, with floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the city.
I hardly notice anything else about the room because the moment I step inside and see that Jackson and his board are already present and seated, my mind starts to race again.
Six people in total, wearing immaculate suits, gaze up at me with polite, expectant stares.
The full, 3D model I built and sent over is sitting in the middle of the table.
“Ms. Holloway,” Jackson says warmly. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” I manage, my voice calmer than I feel. I go around and shake hands with each board member before moving to the front of the room, where a large presentation screen hangs behind me. My laptop suddenly feels heavier in my hands as I place it on the podium.
You’ve got this.
I flip it open and connect the cable to cast the presentation.
My hand trembles slightly as I guide the plug into the port. For a brief, horrifying second it won’t line up, and my fingers fumble.
Please work.
The screen flickers, then my title slide appears across the display.
Oh, thank God.
Relief rushes through me so fast that I nearly laugh. I quickly pass out copies of my presentation so everyone can follow along.
I swallow before turning to face the group.
“Hello, everyone,” I say, clicking the remote controlling my computer.
The first slide pops up on the flatscreen behind me.
“My name is Sutton Holloway. I’m here representing Holloway Architecture, and I want to thank you for the opportunity to show you what Holloway can do to create a performance center designed for artists, not just audiences. ”
Jackson leans back in his chair, one ankle crossing over the opposite knee, clearly intrigued. Around him, the rest of the board shifts their attention fully toward the screen.
“This building isn’t just a venue,” I continue.
“It’s a creative engine. Rehearsal, performance, education, and community engagement all working together under one roof.
My proposal includes a main proscenium space, a black box for experimental work, and a flexible studio theater that can adapt from rehearsal hall to intimate performance space. ”
“And acoustics?” one of the boardmember asks.
“Variable acoustic panels throughout,” I quickly reply, moving to the next slide. “Adjustable ceiling reflectors. Each space can be tuned depending on the production, whether it’s spoken word, orchestral, or an amplified performance.”
As I go through my explanation, I see a few heads nod.
The woman seated beside Jackson scribbles something on a notepad.
Jackson taps his pen against the table, studying the slide. “And public flow? We want visitors to the center to be able to move through the facility easily.”
I smile. “The lobby has clear sightlines, natural gathering zones, and circulation paths that prevent bottlenecks.”
I switch slides and gesture toward the screen.
“You’ll notice that the grand staircase splits the traffic patterns. Patrons heading to the upper balconies move along one path, while ground-level guests flow naturally toward the bars and lounge areas.”
A murmur of interest moves down the table.
One of the board members leans closer to the screen, studying the diagram more carefully.
“This reduces congestion significantly,” I continue. “But more importantly, it makes the building feel welcoming. People should want to linger here, not rush in and out.”
Jackson nods slowly, and there’s a shift in the atmosphere in the room. The cautious evaluation from when I walked in has softened into genuine curiosity.
Another board member, a woman with sharp glasses and a navy suit, lifts her hand.
“And the rehearsal spaces?” she asks. “How accessible are they to visiting companies?”
“Very,” I say immediately, clicking to the next slide.
The layout fills the screen, showcasing bright rehearsal studios, large windows, and modular walls.
“The rehearsal wing sits adjacent to the performance spaces but maintains acoustic separation,” I explain.
“Companies can rehearse during daytime hours while another production performs at night without sound bleed.”
I pause briefly, giving them a chance to fully take in the image.
“And the studios are flexible,” I add. “They can be opened for workshops, master classes, or community programming.”
More nods and someone even murmurs, “That’s smart.”
Jackson glances around the table, a little smile playing about his mouth.