Page 41 of Best In Class (Savannah's Best #7)

Luna

A YEAR LATER

T he cameras are everywhere.

Savannah’s finest are out in full force—city officials, board members, donors in expensive shoes, and Helena Houston and her PR team swarming around like a wasps in designer suits.

The Minton Memorial Hospital gleams under the spring sun—steel and glass and green walls. The vertical garden in the pediatric wing is already lush. The atrium light reflects off every surface like we planned, as if the building itself is grateful to exist.

And I did this.

Well, the team did, but…yeah, I did this. I led it. I take pride in it.

I square my shoulders at the thought.

I hate this PR nonsense—smiling for cameras, speaking in soundbites, performing competence instead of just doing the work. It feels hollow. But I know that if I don’t show up, if I don’t take the mic, some man who knows half as much and speaks twice as loud will take my place.

As Dom told me, this is not just about me, it’s about every woman who comes after.

Women have been sidelined for too long—talked over, talked down to, or completely ignored. And if women like me, who are in the room, don’t lean in—don’t stand up and be counted—then who’s going to hold the door open for the next one?

I don’t want to do it. But I will because we deserve more than quiet corners and silent brilliance.

We deserve to lead.

We deserve to be seen.

And sometimes, that means stepping into the spotlight even when it burns.

But I refuse to step into the spotlight as anyone but me. Helena tried. She wanted me to wear a suit, blah, blah . I told her I’ll wear pants and a jacket.

She looked like she was having a coronary when she saw me in black jeans, gleaming knee-high boots, and a leather jacket with more metal than most women wear around their wrists, necks, and ears.

My clothes feel like armor as I stare out at the crowd—some faces marked with surprise, maybe even doubt, as if they never expected me to make it here. But others…they held my hand, stood beside me, and helped me build one of th e most advanced, state-of-the-art hospitals in the Southeast.

This moment isn’t just mine. It’s ours.

Mayor Clayton finishes his speech. Tommy thanks the donors. And then, finally, the microphone is passed to me.

It’s been a fight getting here, from the start of my career to even convincing Tommy to let me speak, to be respected for what I did.

I take a deep breath. I scan the first row and find my husband.

Dom winks at me.

He’s in leather pants and a leather jacket. He said it’s to keep me company. He looks like a darker version of Danny Zuko.

“Good morning,” I begin, looking out at the rows of people gathered today with anticipation. “When I first imagined this building, I imagined light. I imagined healing. I imagined a space that didn’t just treat illness but also made people feel healed even before their treatment began.”

There’s a murmur of polite approval.

I keep going.

“We were thoughtful about every detail. The glass, the airflow, the sustainable materials, the colors. Not because they are trendy, but because people deserve spaces that feel like hope.”

I glance at Dom. He’s watching me the way he does—like the sun shines through me.

He didn’t ask to speak today. Insisted he wouldn’t. He said this is my day .

But it’s not. Not wholly.

I pause. “And I had help. From someone who didn’t just design a hospital with me—but reminded me what it means to build with trust. To build with heart.”

The crowd shifts. Cameras blink.

“Dominic Calder,” I say, stepping aside slightly, offering my hand toward him, “you didn’t just help create this space—you helped me find mine.”

He looks stunned, but just for a second. He knows me. He knows why I need to do this. He walks up to the stage and takes my hand.

There’s a quiet hum through the crowd—interest, surprise, amusement.

I smile. “Let’s cut the damn ribbon.”

He laughs softly, takes the giant gold scissors from the volunteer, and together, we cut through the red silk to open the hospital.

The crowd claps.

Flashbulbs go off.

But all of that isn’t important. Because when I look at Dom, I see the boy who broke me, the man who rebuilt himself, and the partner I completely believe in.

I don’t kiss him.

Not here.

But I press my shoulder to his, fingers tangled with his, and say just loud enough for him to hear. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Moonbeam,” he whispers back, and then after a moment, mutters, “The hell with it. ”

He yanks me to him, and kisses me in front of God and all of Savannah.

Thank you for reading Best In Class .