Chapter 10 Holly
Holly
“You look stunning. That dress is going to make my mother ask when the wedding is.”
Evan's standing in my apartment doorway in a midnight-blue suit that makes his eyes look like they're lit from within, and I lose my train of thought.
“Then I guess Taylor chose well.”
“She did.”
I grab my clutch from the console table. The dress is deep emerald silk—Taylor's choice after a twenty-minute FaceTime consultation about what reads as “belongs here” versus “trying too hard” in rooms full of people who've never worried about belonging anywhere.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Ready.”
The elevator ride down is quiet. He's standing on one side, I'm on the other. We are maybe 6 inches apart, but it feels like miles.
He clears his throat. “You'll be great tonight.”
“I'm not worried.”
“Liar.”
I look at him. “Fine. Mildly concerned.”
“About what?”
“That I'll mix up my forks. Call someone by the wrong name. Accidentally insult a major donor.”
“You won't.”
“You don't know that.”
“I do.” The elevator doors open to the lobby. “You've planned events for people who make these donors look modest. You know how to read a room. And you're going to walk in there and make them all wonder how they've been hosting dinners without you.”
I step out into the lobby. “That's a lot of confidence in someone you've known for four weeks.”
“Five. And yes.”
EVAN
The restaurant is the kind of place that requires a reservation three months in advance. Stark white facade, single word in brass letters: Meridian. Inside, everything is muted elegance—low lighting, hushed voices, the kind of wealth that doesn't need to announce itself.
The hostess leads us through the main dining room. Holly's taking it all in. Women in designer dresses. Men in bespoke suits, conducting business over wine that's older than I am.
This is my world. I've never questioned it before.
Watching Holly navigate it makes me see it differently.
The private room is in the back. Round table, fresh flowers. Two walls of windows overlooking the city, the other two lined with art I should probably recognize but don't.
Holly walks the perimeter. Clicks her heels once against the hardwood, then again near the windows. Testing acoustics.
I continue briefing her on the expected guests. “Richard and Patricia Whitmore. Major foundation donors. He made his fortune in pharmaceuticals, she runs a family trust. They're considering a seven-figure commitment to the scholarship fund.”
“And they want to meet me because ... ?”
“Because I told them you're restructuring our gala approach. Patricia loves a good story. Richard likes efficiency. You're both.”
She's about to respond when I hear: “Evan!”
My mother sweeps into the room in pearls and another Chanel, all gracious warmth.
“Mother.” I stand. “This is Holly Bennett. Holly, my mother, Catherine Bellamy.”
“It's lovely to meet you, Mrs. Bellamy.”
“Catherine, please.” My mother takes Holly's hand, studying her with the assessing look I've seen her use a thousand times. “Evan's told me so much about you.”
“He has?”
“Well, not much. You know how he is—frustratingly private. But I gather you're planning our winter gala?”
“I am.”
“Wonderful. I'm looking forward to seeing what you've done with it.”
They chat—Catherine asking about Holly's background, Holly answering gracefully. My mother is charming. Interested.
So far, so good.
HOLLY
Catherine's hair is the kind of haircut that requires maintenance I can't fathom. Every strand in place. She probably has a standing appointment. Every week.
The Whitmores arrive—Richard tall and precise, Patricia elegant and sharp-eyed.
“You must be Holly,” Richard says, extending his hand.
“I've been looking forward to seeing your approach in action.”
“Mr. Whitmore,” I shake his hand.
“Richard, please. And this is my wife, Patricia.”
The chef's tasting menu begins—small, perfect courses. Patricia and Catherine are deep in conversation about their holiday plans. Richard asks Evan about foundation strategy.
I'm included, but mostly I'm observing. Learning the rhythm.
“So, Holly,” Richard says, turning his attention to me. “Walk us through your vision for Thursday night. What makes this year’s gala different?”
Don't blow it.
“We're trying a different emphasis this year,” I say. “Less focus on the institution's history and the size of its endowment. More focus on its impact—the actual people being helped.”
“The institution's history,” Catherine says, her voice still pleasant but suddenly cooler, “is my husband. My family. That history represents thirty years of my husband William's life's work.”
Oh no.
“Of course, I wasn't—”
Catherine's smile is now perfectly gracious and perfectly cold.
Richard clears his throat.
My hands are shaking under the table.
“Can you give us an example?” Richard asks. “Of the kind of story you're planning to feature?”
I glance at Evan. He gives me a small nod.
I steady myself.
“There's a woman named Diana. Forty-three years old. High-school dropout who spent twenty years working retail, barely making ends meet. Last year, the foundation funded a career training program that got her certified as a pharmacy technician.”
Patricia leans forward. Catherine is silent.
“Now she's working at a hospital,” I continue. “Making three times what she made before. Saving to put her daughter through college. And when I asked her what the best part of the new job was, I expected her to say the money. Or the stability.”
“What did she say?” Richard asks.
“She said it was the respect. That people call her by her name and value her expertise. That she's not invisible anymore.”
No one speaks.
“That's your story right there,” Richard says finally. “Not 'we funded training programs.' We helped someone become visible.”
“Healthcare seems to be a powerful pathway,” Patricia observes. “Nursing and medical training, specifically.”
“Different paths to the same destination,” Holly agrees. “We have beneficiaries who aged out of foster care, others who spent decades in minimum wage jobs. Healthcare training gives them both expertise and respect.”
“It's a fresh perspective on William's legacy, Catherine,” Patricia adds. “Showing the human impact of everything he built.”
Catherine sets down her wine glass. “It's certainly ... compelling.”
Not forgiveness, not yet. But no longer hostility either.
I'll take it.
“I want to increase our commitment,” Richard says, addressing Evan. “Whatever you need for the scholarship expansion. Let's talk numbers after the gala.”
“We'd be grateful for that conversation,” Evan says.
He takes my hand under the table. Squeezes once.
I squeeze back, trying not to cry with relief.
EVAN
The rest of dinner passes smoothly. Holly handles questions about logistics, donor engagement, scaling impact. Richard is impressed. Patricia keeps finding ways to compliment Holly's approach.
My mother remains polite. Gracious. Distant.
Every response calibrated to be cordial without being warm. She laughs at Patricia's jokes. Asks Richard thoughtful questions. Includes Holly in the conversation with perfect courtesy.
But I sense a coolness there that wasn't there before.
The Whitmores leave around nine-thirty. Handshakes, promises to connect after the gala, Patricia hugging Holly warmly.
“That was wonderful,” Patricia says. “I can't wait to see the gala.”
My mother lingers after they leave.
“Walk me out?”
“Of course.”
Catherine waves Holly off when she starts to join us. “Just a moment with my son. I'll see you at the gala, dear.”
We leave Holly at the table, head through the restaurant to the valet area.
The moment we're alone, my mother turns to me.
“She's lovely—beautiful, articulate, clearly good at her job.”
“But?”
“But Evan, you do understand she works for you.”
“What are you saying?”
“I'm saying workplace relationships are complicated. Especially with a power imbalance.” She pauses. “That comment tonight—I don't think it was intentional. But it showed a lack of awareness about what she's walking into. Our world. What it all means.”
“She recovered beautifully.”
“She did. And the Whitmores were charmed.” Catherine's voice is gentle. “But I need you to consider whether she's ready for this. Whether she wants it. And whether mixing professional and personal is wise.”
The valet pulls up with her car.
“Ainsley Pembroke is in town through the holidays,” she adds. “If you'd like, I could—”
“No. I'm not interested in Ainsley.”
“Then what are you interested in, darling?”
“Holly.”
“You're serious about her.”
“Yes.”
“Does she know that?”
I don't answer.
“I see.” She kisses my cheek. “Just be careful. Make sure whoever you bring into this world understands what they're stepping into. And make sure you're not confusing professional admiration with something more.”
HOLLY
Evan returns troubled.
“Everything okay?”
“Fine.”
“Your mother hates me.”
“She doesn't hate you.”
“I insulted your father in front of everyone.”
“You got us a seven-figure donation.” He offers his hand. “Ready to go?”
The drive back to my apartment is loaded with everything we're not saying.
I've twisted my clutch strap into a knot without realizing it. When I notice, I smooth it out, then start twisting it again.
He pulls up in front of my building and turns toward me.
“You were incredible tonight,” he says.
My impulse is to deflect, to minimize, but he’s looking at me like he means it.
Instead I say: “You know, you should have worn that suit for Halloween.”
“What?”
“The blue. With your eyes doing that glowing thing. Very sexy vampire.”
His eyebrows go up. “Sexy vampire?”
“I mean—you know what, I'm going inside now.”
I fumble for the door handle.
“Goodnight, Evan.”
I flee before he can respond.
My phone buzzes as I'm unlocking my apartment door.
Evan
For the record, I've never gotten that particular compliment before.
We're never speaking of this again.
Noted.
I’ve just pulled on my sleep shirt when my phone pings again. Emma this time.
Emma
How'd it go?
Fine. Good. His mom hates me but I got them a huge donation so mixed results.
And? How are the heart-eyes?
You know this is just for show, right?
YEAH RIGHT.
Okay but what if I'm getting confused? Like, what if I'm just caught up in the performance of it all and I don't know what's real anymore?
Oh honey.
You want my actual advice? Not the fun teasing kind?
Yes please.
You're the most self-aware person I know. You don't get ‘confused’ about your feelings. If you think you like him, you like him. Trust yourself.
But what if making it real ruins what we have?
What if not making it real means you never find out how good it could be?
I sit with that.
When did you get wise?
I married Tom. Clearly I know things.
Also, for what it's worth? The way he looked at you this weekend? That wasn't pretending. That was a man who's already fallen. The only question is whether you're brave enough to catch him.
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, Emma's words circling.
The only question is whether you're brave enough to catch him.
My phone lights up one more time.
Evan
Sleep well.
I hold the phone against my chest for a moment before responding.
You too.