Chapter 4 - Evan
Evan
The PR team has been talking for twenty minutes, and I still don't know what they want.
“Optics,” Samantha—head of our PR team and would-be matchmaker if I ever took her advice in that department—says again, like repetition will make it clearer. “The gala is your signature event. Board members, major donors, press. You need to project—”
“Competence?” I offer. “Success? Caring about the foundation's work?”
“Stability,” she corrects. “Warmth. The kind of man people want to give money to.”
I cross my arms. “And bringing a date accomplishes this how?”
“It softens you.” She pulls up slides on the screen—photos from last year's gala. Me in a tux, shaking hands, performing the role I learned from my father. Efficient, professional, untouchable. It works for fundraising. It's terrible for everything else.
“You're brilliant at what you do, Evan. But you read as ... unapproachable. A partner makes you seem more relatable. More human.”
“I am human.”
“You know what I mean.”
I do. I've heard variations since prep school. “Evan doesn't connect with his peers.” “Has Evan considered smiling?” What they don't understand is that I learned early—smiling too much, caring too much, showing excitement about anything—made me a target. Safer to be unreadable.
Now Devin from the PR team weighs in. “Your mother’s been calling. About the Pembroke girl?”
“Ainsley,” Samantha supplies helpfully. “Perfect match on paper. Both families in finance, similar social circles—”
“I'm not interested.”
“You don't have to marry her,” Devin says. “Just bring her to a few events. Let people see you with someone appropriate.”
That word again. Appropriate.
My phone dings. Taylor’s name flashes on the screen with a message: Your mother is here.
Perfect timing.
“We're done,” I say, standing. “I'll handle the optics my own way.”
Samantha exchanges a look with Devin. They don't believe me. I don't blame them.
My mother is in my office when I return, examining my bookshelf with the critical eye she usually reserves for potential daughters-in-law.
“Darling.” She turns, all elegance in cream Chanel. “I hope you don't mind. Your assistant was so accommodating.”
“Mother. I don't have time for this.”
“You have five minutes before your next meeting. I checked with her.” She settles into the chair across from my desk like she's planning to stay. “The gala is next week.”
“I'm aware. I'm hosting it.”
“Alone?”
“Your cousins are all expanding their divisions—Ben just acquired that pharmaceutical company, Will's about to sell his tech venture for billions—and you're content planning galas?”
“I'm running Dad's foundation.”
“Which is admirable, darling, but the board wonders if you're hiding here instead of taking your proper place in the business.”
Here we go.
“I don't need a date to host a charity gala.”
“Need? No. But it would be nice.” She crosses her legs, getting comfortable for the long game. “Ainsley Pembroke just returned from London—”
“Mother.”
“She's lovely, Evan. Sophisticated, well-traveled, excellent family—”
“I'm not interested in Ainsley Pembroke.”
“You haven't even met her properly. Just one dinner—”
“No.”
Her smile stays perfect while her eyes reproach me. She's been doing this since I was sixteen, this blend of concern and manipulation that makes saying no feel like a personal attack.
“I worry about you,” she says. “You work constantly. You never go anywhere that isn't business-related. When was the last time you were happy?”
The question catches me off guard. When was the last time?
Saturday afternoon. Holly explaining her vision for the beneficiary stories. Her eyes lighting up as she talked about interactive displays.
“I'm fine,” I say.
“You're alone.” She stands, smoothing her skirt. “I'm not asking you to fall in love with Ainsley. I'm asking you to stop closing yourself off from the possibility of connection. That's all I want for you.”
That's the worst part. She believes that her relentless matchmaking comes from love, not control. That she's helping, not suffocating.
“I have to go,” I tell her. “Planning meeting in five minutes.”
She sighs, recognizing defeat for now. “Think about what I said. Please.”
The problem isn't that she's wrong about me being alone.
The problem is that she's right for all the wrong reasons.
I'm not afraid of connection—I'm exhausted by the performance of it.
Every relationship in my world comes with strings attached.
Business mergers disguised as romance. Strategic alliances wrapped in dinner dates.
My mother sees me “closing off” when really I'm just refusing to participate in another transaction.
Taylor is at the doorway. “Holly Bennett is here.”
“Great, send her in.”
I straighten the files on my desk, trying to shake off the conversation with my mother.
Holly agreed to move our meeting without complaint when my "emergency" PR meeting—which turned out to be about my dating life, not an actual crisis—took our usual slot.
Just sent a cheerful text saying she'd adjust her morning.
My mother would have made the scheduling conflict everyone else's problem.
Holly walks in with her coffee and drops into her favored chair in the seating area without preamble. "The crowd flow at the coffee shop is making me insane."
Finally, a conversation with stakes I understand.
I take the seat next to her. “Terrible design?”
“The worst. They have their outdoor seating blocking the entrance during lunch rush. People are bottlenecking on the sidewalk.”
“Right?”
We're both the kind of people who notice these things—the flow problems, the friction points, the places where design fails function. Probably why we work well together.
She opens her planner, which is covered in sticky notes and colored tabs, layers of them creating a three-dimensional roadmap of the gala. Flips to the florist section.
“The florist sent over sample photos this morning,” I say, nodding toward her notes. “The centerpieces are perfect. You were right about the height.”
Why am I telling her this like it's exciting news?
Because her eyes just brightened. And I want to see it again.
“Great, and here are some additional vendor confirmations,” she says, flipping through pages.
“Caterer confirmed, AV team has the specs for the video wall.
I'm coordinating with Jocelyn for the social media coverage.
I've also been working with Britney on her schedule—she can do the greeting role but needs to leave by nine for her shift at the hospital.”
“That works. What about James?”
“He's bringing his grandson.” She grins. “He wants to show everyone Michael’s acceptance letter. I told him we'd display it at his table.”
“We should get him a spotlight too. Make sure people see it during the scholarship announcement,” I say.
Watching Holly talk about James's grandson—her care is infectious. She's personally invested in this kid's triumph.
“Perfect,” she says, scribbling more notes.
She flips to another tabbed section. “Which brings me to the guest list. I noticed Evelyn Durst hasn’t confirmed yet.”
She says it carefully, trying not to sound too interested.
“Do you know her?”
“Not personally. But The Durst Group.” She pauses, choosing her words. “They're the gold standard for large-scale event planning. They handle everything—galas, conferences, major fundraisers. Getting into their rotation would be ... .”
She trails off. Her voice stays casual but her hands give her away, fingers tapping against her tablet. She cares about this too.
“Career-changing,” I supply.
“Yes,” she says. “But they only work with people in their network. You can't just apply. Someone has to introduce you, vouch for you. And even then, they're incredibly selective.”
My brain is already working on it. Evelyn Durst. I could—
No. Stop. This isn't your problem to solve. You're her client, not her ... whatever the opposite of client is.
But I want to help her. The realization sits in my chest like something I should examine more closely later.
“You'd be perfect for them,” I say.
She looks up, startled. “What?”
I should backpedal. Maintain the distance that serves me well in every other relationship. But with Holly, I don’t want to.
Screw it.
“You'd be amazing for them,” I say, committing now. “And they'd be lucky to have you. You see things other people miss. You care about the details that matter. You make people feel seen instead of managed. That's rare. They'd be idiots not to want you.”
She opens her mouth, but nothing follows. She's staring at me like I've said something shocking instead of obvious.
“I mean it,” I continue. “You're exceptional at what you do. Not just competent—truly exceptional.”
I sound like I'm giving a performance review. That's not what this is.
“The way you've transformed this gala, the way you think about impact and storytelling and making spaces work for people instead of against them—you make everything better just by being part of it. That's rare.”
Say it. Just say it.
“You're extraordinary, Holly.”
She stares at me, her face going pink. She's terrible at hiding what she's feeling. I can see the surprise, the pleasure, the slight embarrassment at being praised this directly.
I should feel awkward about this. I don't.
But I meant every word.
“Thank you,” she says. “That ... means a lot. Coming from you.”
“Coming from me?”
“You don't say things you don't mean. You question everything, you cut anything that doesn't serve a purpose, and you don't hand out compliments to be nice.” She's looking at me steadily now. “So when you say things like that, I believe you mean them.”
“I do.”
The room feels smaller than it did ten minutes ago. Or maybe we're sitting closer. We're not, but it feels like we are.
After she leaves, I sit at my desk and replay our meeting.
Holly types the way she talks—in bursts of energy followed by pauses. Click-click-click. Stop. Think. Click-click. She bites her lower lip when she's reading something on her screen. She makes this small chirp of a sound when something works out—not quite a laugh, just a quick, pleased note.
I shouldn't be paying attention to any of this.
I shouldn't be sitting here with that sound stuck in my head.
Another text from my mother dings: Dinner this weekend? Ainsley is free on Saturday.
I let the message sit unanswered.
My mother would find Holly charming if she gave her a chance. She's smart without being intimidating, warm in a way that makes people feel comfortable. She'd navigate that world easily.
And she needs access to people like Evelyn Durst. My mother’s approval would open those doors.
I open my calendar. The holiday dinner with the board is coming up. Then the gala itself just two days later.
Two major events in one week. Two nights of my mother parading eligible women in front of me while my PR team watches for “optics.” Two opportunities to introduce Holly to the exact people she needs to meet.
What if we made a deal? Pretend we are dating, just through the holidays. A few weeks where Holly and I could help each other get what we need.
This is a terrible idea. This is also the best idea I've had in years.
The question is: How do I propose this without sounding like I'm using her? How do I make it clear she can say no—that I'm asking as a friend, not pressuring her as a client?
Assuming we're friends. Are we friends?