Chapter 37 Network, What Like It’s Hard? #2
“Just talking,” Monroe says, easy—but measured now.
“Fans?” she adds lightly.
The word lands sharp.
“I thought you said you wouldn’t be working tonight.”
Monroe doesn’t rise to it. “I’m at a fundraising event… that is working.”
She hums like she doesn’t quite buy it—and before it can stretch any further, August steps in.
Smooth.
Effortless.
Silk over steel.
“Why don’t you two take a look at the auction items, Ro?” he says, tone easy but timed perfectly. “Kelley’s about to open it up.”
Monroe glances at him—something unspoken passing between them—then nods.
“Yeah,” he says, shifting back into that polished version of himself. “Good seeing you again.”
He reaches for August first—a quick dap, shoulder tap, familiar.
Then to us, with a smaller nod.
“It was nice meeting you both.”
It’s subtle—and I’ve known him all of five minutes—but there’s a flicker there.
Like he was enjoying himself…
right up until he wasn’t.
The blonde’s smile sharpens—satisfied—and she loops her arm through his like she’s claiming a win.
Wynter watches them go, expression unreadable for exactly one second.
Then—
she exhales slow.
“Oh, that’s not his girlfriend,” she says, voice light again. “That’s his karmic lesson.”
Emmett lets out a laugh. “Damn. That’s specific.”
“And I am not about to interfere with that kind of spiritual development,” she adds, already recovering. “I support growth.”
Emmett grins. “I’m learning a lot tonight.”
“Oh, baby,” Wynter says, turning to him with a smile that’s all mischief again, “you haven’t heard anything yet.”
She pauses just long enough to glance at me.
“Walk me to the bar, Gatsby.”
“With pleasure,” Emmett says immediately.
The perfect exit.
The perfect wingman.
The perfect out.
God, I love her.
They slip back into the crowd, Wynter already reclaiming her glow like nothing touched her, like she didn’t just get edged out of something she would’ve absolutely enjoyed.
And just like that—
it’s quieter.
Not the room.
Just… here.
And suddenly, it’s just me and August for the first time all evening.
The space between us tightens, charged and quiet.
I want to touch him. I want to take a deep breath and smell him, get high off him and never come down, but I don’t.
Instead, I take a half a step in his direction and he matches it.
“Sorry about that,” he murmurs. “She’s… interesting.”
“So it seems.”
He steps closer, lowering his voice. “I should probably explain—”
“Excuse me.”
The interruption slices clean.
An older man approaches, salt-and-pepper hair, sharp brown eyes, power worn lightly.
“Benjamin,” August says, greeting him warmly.
As they talk, August’s hand guides me into the conversation at my waist. Subtle. Intentional. Grounding. My breath shifts without permission.
“Benjamin,” August says, “this is Harlee Prince.”
Benjamin takes my hand. “Ah. The analysts you can’t stop raving about.”
My chest tightens. “Really?”
“She caught an audit discrepancy that saved us a quarter million,” August says easily. “On instinct.”
Benjamin’s brows lift. “Impressive.”
The conversation slides into finance, risk, strategy. My background. My program. My plans.
“Why numbers?” Benjamin asks.
“Because they don’t lie,” I say, with confidence. “And because someone needs to make sense of chaos.”
August watches me like he knew I’d say exactly that.
“You’re underutilized,” Benjamin says, handing me a card. “If L.A. ever calls.”
The weight of it lands, warm and unreal.
Then more people. Donors. Praise. Introductions.
Wendell and Shelby Crawford. Their son. August’s quiet generosity. His refusal to center himself in any conversation.
I’m still buzzing when the energy shifts about an hour later.
Not loud. Not flashy. Just… altered.
It’s the way the space around August subtly reorients. The way conversations pause half a beat longer. The way people instinctively make room.
The man approaching us moves like he’s used to being watched, but not because he demands it. There’s a grounded confidence to him, something unhurried. Deep brown skin. Clean lines. A presence that doesn’t rush to announce itself.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he says smoothly. “I just wanted to catch you before I head out.”
August turns, already smiling. “Not a problem. August James. This is Harlee Prince.”
The man takes my hand, his grip firm and intentional. “Josiah Washington,” he says. “EchoHouse.”
Oh.
My spine straightens before my brain catches up.
EchoHouse.
Not just a firm. A movement. A reeducation. The reason so many Black artists didn’t lose everything after their first seven-figure check. The blueprint. The quiet counterweight to exploitation dressed up as opportunity.
“The EchoHouse?” I blurt, then wince. Professional, Harlee. Please.
Josiah’s smile widens, amused, not offended. “That one.”
“You changed how wealth management talks to culture,” I say, words tumbling now that the gate’s open. “You didn’t just teach numbers. You taught ownership. Longevity. You made financial literacy feel… humane.”
August glances at me, surprised and clearly impressed.
Josiah’s expression softens, something like pride flickering across his face. “I can’t take credit for all of that. I am just a part of the empire. That means more than you know. Most people only see the headlines.”
He reaches inside his peacoat, the movement deliberate. The room seems to hush around us as he pulls out a long, matte-black envelope and hands it to August.
“Zola Sullivan sends her love,” he says. “She couldn’t be here tonight, but this cause is close to her heart. She wanted me to give you this on her behalf.”
My chest tightens.
Zola Sullivan. Founder. Visionary. The woman who built EchoHouse from the ground up and refused to let proximity to power erase accountability.
“She’s extraordinary,” I say softly. “Her work… it changed the game for millennials.”
Josiah nods. “She believes wealth should be a tool, not a trap. Along with health care.”
August tucks the envelope carefully into his jacket. “Please thank her. This means more than you know.”
As the conversation continues, something shifts. This isn’t networking. This isn’t polite donor talk. This is alignment.
Josiah turns to me, eyes sharp but kind. “August tells me you’re finishing your practicum at Northbridge. Any plans after graduation?”
“I’ve been planning my whole life,” I say. “But something finance-focused, for sure.”
“Risk?” he asks, immediately.
“Yes,” I answer, pulse ticking faster. “Risk, wealth management. Systems that protect people from their own blind spots.”
He studies me for a moment, really studies me, and I get the sudden, electric feeling of being evaluated by someone who knows what to look for.
“That instinct,” he says slowly, “is rare.”
August smiles, pride quiet but unmistakable. “She sees patterns before they’re obvious.”
Josiah nods once. “That’s the kind of mind EchoHouse needs.”
The words hit differently than Benjamin’s pitch. This isn’t about prestige. Or location. Or old power opening a door.
This is about purpose.
“If you’re ever interested,” Josiah continues, “I’d love to connect you with our team. Even just a conversation. We’re building something meant to last.”
My throat tightens. “I would love that.”
He checks his watch, regret flickering across his face. “I’ve got a flight to catch, unfortunately.”
Of course he does. Men like this are always in motion.
He shakes August’s hand, firm and respectful. “You’re doing good work here.”
Then he turns back to me. “Keep that fire. Don’t let anyone dull it for convenience.”
And then he’s gone, slipping back out into the lobby like he was never standing in front of me at all.
For a second, I just stand there, heart thudding.
That wasn’t networking.
That was recognition.
I turn to August, barely containing myself. “Did you hear that?”
His smile is slow, proud, almost reverent. “I told you. You’re not just surviving this space, Harlee. You’re reshaping it.”
The weight of Josiah Washington’s words lingers in my chest long after he disappears.
EchoHouse.
Impact over optics. Legacy over flash.
I suddenly understand something with terrifying clarity:
This night isn’t just about August anymore.
It’s about the future I’m being quietly invited into.
August smiles, proud and certain. “Told you. You’re amazing.”
“Stop.” I laugh. “You just want to touch my booty.”
“Multiple things can be true.”
He steps away to secure the donation. I finally excuse myself toward the restroom, heart racing, feet aching, confidence humming under my skin like a second pulse.
The night hasn’t cracked yet.
But I can feel the pressure building.
And for the first time, I’m standing tall enough to meet whatever comes next.