Chapter 1 #2
Beatrice stands at the edge of my folding workstation in a severe black suit, silver hair pinned so neatly it makes everyone around her look unfinished. She carries two plates and the expression of a woman who has been disappointed by powerful men since before I learned to read.
"What face?" I ask.
"The one that tells me you skipped lunch and dinner." She sets a plate in front of me. "Eat."
"I have work to do."
"You have staff."
"I am staff tonight."
Her mouth tightens. "No. You're his wife."
Wife.
I glance at the monitor. "The final video cues in twelve minutes."
"Then you have eleven to take three bites."
"I'm fine."
Beatrice looks at the covered plate beside my laptop, then my untouched coffee. Her gaze moves to the indentation the headset has pressed into my hair. Nothing escapes her. It's one of the reasons Rourke depends on her, and one of the reasons most executives fear her.
"You've been back here for almost four hours," she says.
"Back here is where the event happens."
"The event you created."
"Yes."
She turns her head toward the open service door.
Rourke stands near the stage now with Jocelyn at his side and three investors arranged in a half circle around them. Jocelyn says something that makes one of the men laugh. Rourke glances at her, smiling, then answers the investor.
Beatrice's voice lowers. "He's managed to notice every investor in the building."
My fingers close around the edge of the plate. "They're the reason for the gala."
I pull the lid off the plate because it gives my hands something to do. The sea bass smells faintly of butter and herbs. My stomach turns over, empty and sour.
"Final sequence in six," AV says in my ear.
I push the plate an inch away. "I need the room."
Beatrice studies me for another second. Then she lifts the fork, cuts a bite, and holds it out like she would happily stab me with it if I make the wrong choice.
I take the bite.
"That's a girl," she says.
I chew because she watches until I swallow, then I turn back to the laptop.
"All teams, final sequence on my mark. Video in thirty. Lighting, prepare the warm drop on frame two. Music, bring the closing track under at twenty percent. Champagne team, hold at entry until applause begins."
My pulse slows as the pieces line up.
This part I can do. This part has always made sense to me. Flowers need water, stems need support, guests need direction, men like Rourke need rooms that rise around them as if the whole world has been waiting for their voice.
"Mark," I say.
The rooftop screens bloom with the final video.
Ridgeline at sunrise. Glass cabins tucked into trees.
A lake reflecting a sky too clean to be real.
The music slips in beneath Rourke's voice, low and swelling.
Lights warm. Servers move to the edges of the crowd with trays of champagne catching candlelight.
Rourke closes the presentation without looking at a note.
"To what we build next," he says, lifting his glass.
The crowd lifts theirs, and applause breaks over the rooftop.
For a moment, all I feel is pride.
The video looks stunning. The lights hit on time. The champagne appears as if conjured. Every guest is exactly where they should be, face turned toward my husband, hands coming together for him.
Jocelyn stands a few feet to his right.
Close enough that when two investors step forward with congratulations, they include her in the circle. She accepts it easily, not stealing attention, not refusing it either. Rourke says something to her, and she nods as if they are already inside the next plan.
The applause keeps going as I remove my headset slowly.
The corridor sounds rush back in, smaller now. A cart wheel squeaks. Someone laughs near the service elevator. My ear aches where the padded speaker pressed against it all night, and when I touch my hair, I can feel the flattened crescent it left behind.
I sit down and begin closing the event from my laptop. Vendor release times. Overtime approvals. Notes for the morning breakdown. A request from housekeeping about elevator access. A message from catering asking whether the late-night bites should still go out.
Yes, I type. Ten minutes.
My phone vibrates beside the cold coffee.
For one foolish second, my body answers before my mind does. My hand reaches fast.
Rourke's name lights the screen.
Rourke
Great work tonight. Going to be late. Don't wait up.
I stare at the message.
The service door stands open twenty feet from where I sit, and through it, I can see my husband. He's near the north bar, one shoulder angled toward the city, champagne untouched in his hand. Jocelyn leans close to say something over the music. Her mouth is near his ear.
Not intimate. Not enough for anyone to pause. Not enough for accusation.
Rourke lowers his head.
The movement is small. Courteous, probably. Necessary, with the music still playing and investors still circling.
He turns toward her fully, and the world around him seems to narrow down to the space between her face and his.
I can't hear what she says.
I only see him listening.
My thumb opens the message.
I type, I can see you.
The words sit there, too naked.
I erase them.
I type, I waited all night.
Erase.
I type his name, then erase that too.
The phone rests in my palm, bright and silent. My wedding ring presses against the metal edge of the case.
On the rooftop, Rourke smiles faintly at whatever Jocelyn has said.
Not his public smile. Not the one for rooms and cameras and men with money. A smaller one. Quieter.
I delete his message.
The screen goes blank.
Beyond the service doorway, my husband remains twenty feet away, bending his head toward another woman's voice, and I sit behind the event I built with the mark from a headset still pressed into my hair.
I try to remember the last time Rourke looked at me like hearing me was the only thing in the room that mattered.
The music changes before I can.