Page 51 of Babies for the Big Shot

I’ve chaired billion-dollar negotiations with less physiological fallout.

“You’re quiet,” she says.

“I’m thinking.”

“About the gala?”

“Not exactly.”

She doesn’t press, but I feel her attention shift, just enough to register the tension. Not enough to name it.

The car slows, headlights sweeping the façade of the museum. Private entrance. No press. No red carpet. Just a valet, two discreet guards, and the low vibration of a string quartet echoing through the doors.

A contained kind of elegance. One that costs more than it appears to.

She glances at me as the door opens. “Still time to change your mind.”

“Not even slightly.”

I step out first. She follows. And when she takes my hand, I don’t let go.

We walk in together.

No explanation. No excuse.

She’s not my employee tonight. Not a one-night lapse. Not a problem to be solved. She’s just here. With me. And I’m letting it happen.

No one questions it. They see the suit, the name, the reputation. The assumption is simple: men in my position can bring whoever they want. It’s not scandal. It’s power.

They don’t recognize her. Not yet. But they notice.

And so do I.

The ballroom is all soft lighting and curated wealth. Gold-leafed molding. Oil paintings no one actually looks at. Glass flutes circulate on silver trays, untouched. I don’t eat at these events. I don’t drink unless I need to. I watch.

A jazz trio plays in the corner. It’s tasteful. Background noise for strategic alliances.

Sara’s grip tightens slightly on my arm.

“Nervous?” I murmur.

She doesn’t look at me when she answers. “I’ve been in tougher rooms.”

I believe her. She wears that truth like armor.

We move through the crowd in lockstep, her fingers resting lightly on my forearm, her posture easy. Confident. Her presence draws attention, but not questions. She belongs here. That’s not up for debate.

She makes conversation with ease. Wry, warm, precise in a way that keeps the tone just this side of disarming. The bankers laugh a little too loudly. The wives pay attention. She knows how to hold a room. She doesn’t overreach. She doesn’t posture. She simply is. And that’s more effective than anything they’re used to.

No one asks who she is. They don’t need to. I’m standing beside her. That’s enough.

She leans toward me, voice low. “This feels like a date.”

“It is a date.”

That slows her. Just slightly. I feel it before I see it.

Her eyes lift to mine. “You’re serious.”