Page 120 of Babies for the Big Shot

She doesn’t.

“I want to be there, Sara. Appointments. The scary stuff. The messy stuff. All of it.”

“What if it gets worse?” she asks, her voice small. “What if the media doesn’t stop? What if the board fires you? What if we crash and burn again?”

I take a step closer, not backing down. “Then we figure it out. Together.”

She holds my gaze, and I see the war inside her, the fear battling against hope, the pain fighting the possibility.

Finally, she exhales, a soft breath of surrender. “You really want to do this?”

I nod. “Yeah. I do. All of it. You. Them. This insane, upside down, terrifying life.”

She doesn’t cry this time.

She just steps into me, her arms finding their way around my waist, and lets me hold her.

For the first time in days, maybe weeks, something inside me settles. Because I don’t know how we’re going to do this. But I know we will.

Together.

We stand there for a long time, the world shrinking down to just us. Her arms around my waist, my chin resting on the top of her head, her breath warm through the fabric of my shirt. Finally, I can breathe.

But it doesn’t last. It never does.

Eventually, she pulls back a little, her eyes still cautious. “You said you needed to see me. That there was something you wanted to talk about.”

I hesitate. I don’t want to break this fragile peace we’ve managed to find, but I can’t avoid it any longer.

“Yeah,” I say, “there is.”

I reach into my coat pocket, pull out the flash drive, and hold it between us.

“This showed up at the office today. Security handed it to me without saying much. Just told me I needed to see it.”

Sara’s brows furrow. “What is it?”

I walk with her to the couch, pop open my laptop, and slide the flash drive into the port. It takes a few seconds for it to load. Then the screen fills with grainy footage. The timestamp’s on the corner. The lobby view.

Sara leans in.

Then, she stills.

The figure on screen is hooded, unremarkable. But there’s something about the way she moves. Purposeful. Quick.

She lingers near my office door, just outside the frame, then shifts back into view, walking calmly toward the elevator as though she hasn’t just crossed a line she shouldn’t have.

I fast-forward, switching to another angle. This one’s clearer.

Her face lifts briefly toward the camera. I freeze the frame.

Sara inhales quickly. “I’ve seen her before.”

“You have?”

She nods, her expression twisting into something akin to confusion, or maybe dread. “She was in the lobby. Then maybe at the gala?”

“Do you know her name?”