26. Danica
— ? —
Danica
The venue was perfect.
Tables decorated with centerpieces the kids had made themselves, construction paper flowers and painted rocks and cards that said things like “Thank you for helping us” in shaky handwriting. The food was ready, the music was cued, the donors were arriving in their designer gowns and tailored suits.
Everything was exactly as I’d planned it.
Except there were no kids.
I stood at the entrance, watching the clock tick past six-thirty, trying not to panic. Stefan had promised he’d fix this. Stefan had said to trust him.
But the buses were canceled and the kids were scattered across the city and Paula was somewhere in this venue, probably smiling that satisfied smile, knowing she’d finally won.
“Any word?” Evie appeared at my elbow, champagne glass in hand.
“Nothing yet.”
“Maybe we should tell the donors there’s been a delay…”
And then I heard it.
Sirens.
A chorus of them. Growing louder by the second, a wall of sound that made the donors turn toward the entrance with confused expressions.
“What the hell?” someone muttered.
I pushed through the crowd to the front doors and stepped outside.
My jaw dropped.
Fire engines. Old ones, polished to a shine, the kind that lived in a museum bay and came out for parades.
Behind them, a line of ambulances with the Salvatore Medical crest on the doors.
A whole convoy pulling into the venue’s circular driveway, lights flashing red and white, sirens wailing for just a moment before cutting off.
And piling out of every single one?
Kids.
Kids in their best clothes, kids in wheelchairs, kids with oxygen tanks and kids with heart surgery scars and kids who were shrieking with absolute joy as firefighters in full turnout gear, off duty and grinning, helped them down from the engines.
“Best ride EVER!” one boy screamed, pumping his fist in the air.
“I got to use the siren!” a girl shouted to no one in particular. “They let me use the SIREN!”
Stefan was in the middle of it all. Tuxedo jacket off, sleeves rolled up, lifting kids out of ambulances like he did this every day. He was grinning, actually grinning, in a way I hadn’t seen in months.
I ran to him.
“How did you…”
“Reserve engines, off-duty crews, our own ambulances. Nothing that was supposed to be anywhere else tonight.” He set down a little girl in a pink dress, and she immediately ran off to show her mother the fire hat she’d been given.
“Turns out, firefighters love a good cause. And they really, really love sticking it to rich people who try to leave sick kids stranded. And the siren is the best grand entrance announcement.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’ve been told.”
More kids were pouring out of the vehicles now. Forty-three of them, exactly, every single one accounted for. Parents were crying. Donors were taking photos. A news crew had materialized out of nowhere, which I’d later learn meant Stefan’s assistant had made one more call.
“This is the best entrance I’ve ever seen,” one of the donors said to her husband, clutching her pearls. “I’m doubling my donation.”
“Tripling,” the husband agreed.
Stefan caught my eye and winked. Actually winked, like a character from a movie, and I couldn’t help it. I laughed.
“You magnificent bastard,” I said.
“I prefer ‘devoted husband,’ but I’ll take it.”
We herded everyone inside, where the real party began. Kids running between tables, donors actually talking to them, laughter and music and everything I’d dreamed this gala could be.
It was perfect.
For about twenty minutes.
Then Paula walked onto the stage.
I didn’t see her coming. Didn’t realize what was happening until I heard the tap of the microphone, looked up, and saw her standing in the spotlight.
She was twenty minutes ahead of the run-of-show. Nobody had cued her. Nobody had introduced her. She’d just… taken the stage.
She could, because she was still a committee co-chair. Harriet had made sure of that, and nobody on my staff had the authority to pull a co-chair off a stage.
And in her hands was a piece of paper.
My piece of paper. The speech I’d saved to the committee’s shared drive, because I still had to share a drive with her.
“Good evening, everyone,” Paula said, her voice smooth. “I want to share something with you tonight. A personal reflection on why this foundation matters.”
She started reading.
And I recognized every word.
Because it was my speech. The one I’d written at two in the morning, crying over my laptop, pouring my heart onto the page.
It was about my mother, about why I started this foundation, about the moment I realized that helping sick kids was the only thing that made sense in a world that often didn’t.
Paula was reading it like she’d written it herself. And the room knew something was wrong before it knew what. A murmur at the board table, where people had heard me tell the folding-table story for five years. Evie, three tables over, mouthing what. Harriet, of all people, frowning at the stage.
I felt Stefan’s hand find mine. “That’s yours,” he said, very quietly, and then nothing else. Just held on.
“…and that’s why I believe in the power of hope,” Paula continued, her voice dripping with false emotion. “These children remind us that even in our darkest moments, there is light. Thank you.”
The audience applauded. Of course they did. They didn’t know. How could they?
My blood went cold. But I didn’t move.
I was thinking of a way to confront her without making a scene.
Paula smiled and started to walk off stage, her heels clicking against the hardwood.
And that’s when she made her mistake.
She didn’t check her mic.
“God, finally.” Her voice was quiet. She had her phone to her ear before she was off the last step, talking to whoever she called when the performance was over, but the microphone was still on. “Those kids are so depressing. I can’t believe I had to pretend to care for this long.”
A stagehand’s eyes went wide. “Uh, ma’am…”
“And relax about Danica. She never heard the good part of that phone call. The second he started taking it all back, I hung his phone up for him. He still thinks it dropped.”
The room went dead silent.
Paula kept talking, oblivious.
“Same as the rooftop picture. Four tries to get his ring in the frame while he checked his email. He didn’t even notice. Men are so easy to manipulate when their egos are…”
She finally looked up.
Saw the screens flanking the stage, displaying her face in high definition.
Saw every single person in the venue staring at her in horror.
“No,” she whispered. The microphone caught that too. “No, no, no…”
Harriet Salvatore was the first to move. She stepped away from Paula like she was contagious, her face a mask of disgust.
Two security guards appeared at the edge of the stage.
“Dr. Clarke,” one of them said, “we’re going to have to ask you to leave.”
Paula’s mask finally cracked. “This is a misunderstanding. I didn’t mean… Stefan, tell them…”
But Stefan wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at me.
“Go,” he said quietly. “They need to hear from you. The real you.”
I took a breath, squared my shoulders, and walked toward the stage.