Chapter Three
Ivy
“And once we go live, there are no second takes,” I say, clicker poised—my tiny weapon of authority.
Behind me, the slide reads Singles Activism Weekend: Production Framework in a clean navy font. It looks sleek, authoritative, stable. Unlike me ten minutes ago in the lobby bathroom, where I was scrubbing green sludge off my cleavage while I muttered affirmations into a paper towel dispenser.
Thank God for the backup blazer in my suitcase. My skin still feels tacky under my silk blouse, but at least I no longer smell like a lawnmower’s sweaty armpit.
Twenty people sit around the Bellwether’s conference table, and every one of them is locked in. The ocean breeze slips through the cracked windows, skimming over the polished wood, as if the room itself wants to hear what comes next.
I focus on the slide. The bullet points. The cadence of my voice.
Correction: I try to focus on the slide. The bullet points. The cadence of my voice.
I gotta stop thinking about thumbs.
Specifically, the thick, calloused, I-could-snap-a-pencil-with-two-fingers thumbs belonging to the man sitting three feet away. So close that his whiskey scent keeps finding me without permission.
I am not thinking about the heat of his palm splayed wide across my hip, the weight of it, the intention. I am absolutely not thinking about the squeeze—the deliberate, you’re-not-going-anywhere squeeze—that sent a charge up my spine so fast my nipples got the message before my brain did.
Why the hell did it take me so long to realize his arm was still around my waist?
And why do I get the feeling he was about to pull me flush against him and—
Focus, Ivy. You’re running a production meeting. Don’t let Cole “High-Risk, High-Reward” Hartwell skew your data.
Shut. It. Down. Now.
“Nothing this weekend gets packaged, edited, or wrapped in a bow after the fact,” I say, clicking to the next slide. “The Welcome Gala tonight, tomorrow’s Beach Cleanup, Sunday’s Sea Lion Viewing. All of it streams live to Dare4Change’s full donor base.”
I give it a beat. Let it land…
A finger goes up.
“Juliette Vexford.” She says her name the way people say objection. “Senior Events Coordinator for Hotel Bellwether.”
She’s immaculate. Late fifties, I’d guess. Honey-blonde hair pulled into a severe low bun. Cream tailored suit without a wrinkle. Pearl studs and a necklace that look generational. A leather-bound clipboard sits perfectly aligned in front of her.
“My concern,” Juliette continues, “is whether the livestream positions the Bellwether as a venue…” She pauses, savoring every syllable. “Or as a backdrop.”
She says it like an accusation.
“Let me be clear, there is a difference,” she adds, taking a stern look at Blaze. “Hotel Bellwether is an institution. We have hosted governors and nobility. I expect your framing to honor its legacy.”
Cole’s energy shifts beside me. Here we go.
“Oh, we’re not only preserving that legacy,” Cole says. “We’re amplifying it—”
I cut in. “Ballroom wide shots to capture the timeless chandeliers. Terrace footage that keeps the famous red roof and coastline in frame. Lower-thirds to identify the Bellwether by name at regular intervals. Our audience will fall in love with this place.”
Silence.
Juliette studies me and writes something on her clipboard. The fast flick of her pen makes me nervous.
“Going live is where we win the internet,” Cole says, reclaiming the air. “Energy. Spontaneity. When something unexpected happens, that’s the hook for the algorithm.”
The room leans toward him. Of course it does. I built the structure. He gets the spotlight.
Before I can throat-punch him in front of witnesses, another hand rises.
“I’m Dr. Sienna Alvarez,” she says in an easygoing, impossible-to-ignore voice. “Senior marine biologist and field rescuer for Saltwater Saviors.”
Every man at the table sits a little taller. Even Blaze straightens. I follow their collective gaze (yeah, that's valid).
She radiates natural beauty—early thirties, sun-kissed olive skin, dark curls that have never met a hair tie they liked. Her biceps are sculpted, the kind you only get from wrestling Pacific sea creatures for fun.
Her eyes land on me and stay there. “For the beach cleanup,” she says, “you’re encouraging singles into shallow water. How are you managing currents and marine hazards while filming live? If someone wanders into a rip while trying to look cute on camera, that’s not engagement. That’s a rescue.”
Cole jumps in. “Here’s the thing about live audiences, when something real happens, that’s actually where donations spike.”
Sienna tilts her head. “That’s not a safety plan.”
Satisfaction flares in my chest.
“We’ll establish visible boundary lines in dry sand,” I say. “Nobody enters beyond knee-depth without marine staff clearance. A safety team will monitor currents. Camera operators will stay shoreside. If we capture water footage, it’s handled by trained personnel only.”
I meet her gaze evenly. “No volunteer becomes a headline.”
Sienna’s lips curve just a fraction. “Great.”
That word lands like a trophy.
Blaze’s arm rockets into the air, elbow catching his water bottle and sending it skidding across the oak table. Juliette stops it with a flat palm, not breaking eye contact with her clipboard.
His muscular, sun-browned arm shows off a full sleeve of tattoos that belong to a fever dream: a wiener dog in Darth Vader cosplay.
A T-Rex sitting in lotus position. A cartoon brain lifting weights with disturbingly ripped forearms. And then, in the middle of his bicep, a single tattoo stands out: a vertical surfboard cradled in a curling wave, with a deep ocean-blue heart at its core.
Not chaotic. No hint of irony. That one’s devotion.
“Okay, important question, my dudes!” he says. “Can the seals, like, see us on the livestream if I hold up my phone? Wanna make sure they feel the love, ya know? Like, included in the vibes.”
The serious-looking scientist next to him makes a strangled sound. “Sea. Lions,” he corrects.
Blaze waves a hand. “Right, right. Sea lions. The spicy seals.”
The man looks personally offended.
“Sorry, bro,” Cole says calmly. “Sea lions can’t see the stream. They’re busy being sea lions.”
Blaze nods thoughtfully. “Got it. So we need a monster screen! Done. I’ll get one so big they’re gonna need sunglasses.”
“I like the way you think, bro,” Cole smirks. “Let me figure it out and get back to you.”
Ugh. I hate, genuinely hate, how good Cole is at that. Whatever Blaze hands him, he can redirect it without making the guy feel stupid and without losing support from the room. It’s infuriating.
“Moving on.” I advance the slide. “The Untangling Activity. Singles are paired together, lightly roped, and work as a team to get free. The rope represents fishing debris.”
Up goes Juliette’s finger again. I’m learning this means brace yourself.
“Yes, Ms. Vexford,” I say. It’s clear she will speak whether acknowledged or not.
“The phrase tied up appears three times in the event brief. Is it insinuating something? The Hotel Bellwether does not support bondage-adjacent optics.”
Blaze’s head pops up. “Bondage? Hell yeah! Wait. Is that what this singles weekend is?”
“It’s a team-building exercise!” I blurt out, my face turning red.
“The rope is for, uh, activities—not those activities! Not that bondage is bad! I mean, if you’re into that, you do you.
No judgment here, but this is not that! It’s for teamwork!
Like a trust fall, but with rope! And clothes!
So many clothes! Fully dressed! No whips, no chains, no fun stuff—unless you find teamwork pleasurable, which, hey, no kink-shame, but that’s not the point!
The point is marine conservation! Am I right? ”
I whip my head toward Cole, eyes screaming, SAVE ME! But nope. Just a smirk.
Jerkoff.
King of jerkoffs.
“Next,” I say briskly. “On-camera logistics.”
I outline filming protocols. Volunteer zones. How we manage troll comments and online bullies when we are streaming live. How we protect the integrity of the cause while keeping energy high.
Juliette’s finger lifts again.
Cole beats me by saying, “Ms. Vexford, we’re not turning the Bellwether into a frat house. Scout’s honor.” He winks. “It’s going to be elegant, timeless even. I promise you’ll be hiring extra staff just to manage the reservation frenzy.”
She studies him. Then gives a small, measured nod.
Dammit. He’s winning this meeting! My meeting. The one I planned, prepped, and practiced in the shower for weeks. He didn’t even bring a friggin’ notepad.
HRRNNK. A throat clears.
Every head in the room pivots.
The culprit: the pained scientist seated beside Blaze. Sandy hair, wire-rimmed glasses, a Saltwater Saviors quarter-zip zipped to his throat like it’s holding in his personality.
“Dr. Orson Echols,” he begins, voice clipped and methodical. “Head marine biologist for Saltwater Saviors. I need clarification on live chat moderation.”
His eyes drop to his notes. Then back up.
“The entanglement exercise—symbolically sound, I’ll grant you that—nevertheless presents a meaningful risk of misinterpretation by viewers who may perceive the simulation as trivializing marine trauma.
I need to better understand the moderation infrastructure to ensure the comment section does not actively contradict the intended conservation messaging. ”
Translation: What if the live chat turns into singles sexting each other?
“We’ll keep an eye on it,” Cole says. “It’ll be fun.”
Orson regards him the way scientists observe something they cannot classify. “Marine trauma,” he says slowly, “is not fun.”
“We pre-frame,” I say smoothly. “Lower thirds with verified rescue statistics. A clear verbal explanation before the activity begins. Moderated chat with filtered no-no words and redirect links to educational resources. We honor the seriousness without sacrificing engagement.”
Orson adjusts his glasses. “Acceptable.”
Ha! Suck on that, Hartwell.