Dalton pokes his head in. “Good morning to me. Should I bring popcorn or body armor?”
“Both,” I say without looking away from Gage.
Gage sets his cup aside. “You want to go to the venue for the walk through. Then you want to attend the event.”
“Yes.”
“You'll follow my rules.”
I tip my chin. “Negotiate with me and I'll consider them.”
A spark lights in his eyes, heat and dare. “You like to bargain.”
“I like to win.”
I spread color-coded binders across the dining table, each tabbed within an inch of its life. Guest lists, dietary notes, vendor timelines—every moving part has a home. Logistics are my language, and I speak it fluently. When I lay the binders down, it’s not decoration. It’s a battle plan.
We go three rounds before noon. I put guest lists, vendor contracts, and run-of-show in a neat stack. He lays out threat matrices, entrance choke points, camera coverage, medical response times. Rush joins by phone and listens while we volley, keeping his comments measured and letting us argue it out.
“Bottom line,” I tell Rush, pacing barefoot across the rug, “if I don't show up for the walk through, there'll be sloppiness tomorrow. Sloppiness costs dollars. I can fix six problems with ten minutes in the room.”
Gage watches me move, all quiet calculation. “You're not stepping inside that building without a sweep.”
“Fine,” I say. "You sweep.”
Rush sighs like a man giving permission to a hurricane. “You go,” he says, “but you go on Gage’s terms.”
I smile sweetly. “Fine. We’ll play it your way.”
“Damn right,” Gage says.
I arch an eyebrow. “As long as you don’t expect me to sit quietly. I don’t do ‘compliant victim.’”
His jaw works. Rush makes a choking sound that might be a laugh. “Figure it out, you two,” he says, and hangs up.
Gage mutters something under his breath, barely audible, then blows it out in a sharp exhale. I count three beats before he reins it in. The lapse makes his eyes go flat, too controlled.
I grin. “Told you. I like to win.”
Gage steps into my space until I feel the heat of him, steady and unyielding. “Princess, I'm here to keep you breathing, not to keep you happy.”
“Good news,” I say, holding his gaze. “I can do both.”
The venue is a downtown hotel with ceilings that glitter and staff that knows me by name. I've walked this ballroom a hundred times in flats and a lanyard, and later tomorrow I'll walk it in silk and diamonds. For now, it is clipboards and cables.
We arrive to find the AV crew building a small city of trusses above the stage. I start working the room like a field general. “Dim level at seventy for cocktail hour, then bring the wash to ninety-five for the program. No hot spots on the lectern. Swap the floral at Table Ten, our honoree is allergic to peonies. Chef, the vegetarian entrée needs a garnish that doesn't look like an afterthought. I need a champagne saber for the live auction, and I want the champagne behind glass until I say go.”
Gage walks two steps behind me, saying nothing, watching everything. He checks exits, studies staff badges, catalogues faces. He is a shadow with teeth.
A stagehand trips a breaker, the moving lights blink out, and the ballroom drops into dim. The ballroom AC kicks low, the chill crawling over bare arms until half the staff rubs their shoulders. I clock it instantly.
“Someone tell engineering to reset the thermostat—guests in gowns don’t donate when they’re shivering.” The AV lead swears. I clap twice. “All right, deep breaths. Five minutes to reset. And next time we don't run the fog machine and the moving heads on the same circuit. Split the load.”
The AV lead blinks. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good,” I say, softer. “You're doing great. I say it because I mean it.”
He straightens like I handed him a medal.
