Her dark hair, loose around her shoulders, framed a soft face with bedroom eyes. She wore a confident expression. Not smiling exactly, but not cold either, and there was a calm radiating from her. She looked like she belonged at a gala, but wouldn’t roll her eyes if Kathleen mispronounced a wine.
According to the file, she was thirty-six. Mature and self-assured. And curvy. Kathleen felt a strange flicker in her chest. That was the kind of body she felt comfortable around. Not thin and statuesque. She looked solid and real.
She turned the card over. Veronica had a background in “lifestyle consulting,” a vague enough phrase to be meaningless, but her profile emphasized calm professionalism and intelligence. She was listed as preferring female clients, which, definitely, was a point in her favour.
Kathleen looked at the three cards laid out side by side on the coffee table. Then she looked at them again. Her mind liked patterns. Comparisons. Measurable traits. But this wasn’t lab work. This was human interaction, and that always felt like trying to solve an equation with missing variables.
Still, there was no contest.
Ava was too young. Ophelia too polished.
Veronica looked like someone who wouldn’t treat the evening as a performance, or worse, as a business transaction.
Kathleen tapped the card once, aligning its edges with the others, and took a steady breath.
Veronica Hale. This was the practical, reasonable choice.
She didn’t need romance or even charm. She wanted someone who wouldn’t make her feel broken for not knowing what to say when the room got too loud.
At least her mother would be pleased. She would have someone on her arm, a distraction from the constant questions about when she was going to settle down, or if she was ‘still keeping all her options open.’
Kathleen stood and took the card to her desk, setting it beside her calendar carefully. Then she typed out a short message to the agency confirming her selection, and clicked send.
She told herself it was for one evening.
But as the screen faded back to black, she found herself glancing again at Veronica’s photo.
And thinking, not for the first time, that it might be nice to talk to someone who didn’t expect her to perform.
CHAPTER FOUR
The phone rang Friday morning.
Marise sat cross-legged on the hotel bed, still in her robe, reviewing Kathleen’s research papers on her laptop. Her work sounded impressive, if complicated. She needed to get her head around the scientific jargon before she met the woman. To learn how far she’d come in the project, she’d have to be able to understand it.
She reached for the phone after the second ring.
“Elise Berry,” came the modulated voice. “Good morning, Ms. Hale. You’ve been selected.”
Marise set her laptop aside; though expecting the words, she still felt a measure of relief.
“For the Atlantic Environmental Research Foundation Gala?” she asked, crossing her fingers.
“Yes. Dr. Kathleen Knowles has requested you. She reviewed all three profiles and chose yours personally.”
Marise allowed herself the faintest smile, aware why she had been chosen. She wasn’t the youngest, or the most glamorous, but because women like Kathleen Knowles didn’t want fireworks. They needed calm and discretion. Someone whowouldn’t make things worse by trying too hard to make them feel better.
“She’s requested a short meeting before the event,” Elise added. “Her residence, seven sharp. Driver will be provided, and dress accordingly. I’ll text you the address.”
“Of course,” Marise said. “Thank you.”
The line went dead.
She rose from the bed, stretching once, and walked to the wardrobe. She’d done her homework—studied Knowles' press appearances, her interviews, the rare photos where she’d been coaxed to smile in front of a research installation or next to a reluctant award.
The woman’s dress sense could only be described as dowdy and she didn’t chase attention. If anything, she looked mildly startled whenever she received it.
Marise considered her clothing options carefully.
