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I look past him at Nate and Elias.
Three men I still love, even as fury at them burns through me. It’s a dizzying, impossible truth to hold.
“After the launch,” I say.
Relief breaks over them in a visible wave. Jace’s eyes flutter closed in silent prayer, Elias exhales a breath he seems to have held for weeks, and the rigid tension finally drains from Nate’s shoulders, leaving him looking almost undone.
“That’s all I’m promising.”
Nate gives a short, tight nod, as if forcing himself to accept the terms. “It’s enough.”
forty-five
The Ghost in the System
The launch is flawless. At least, that’s what it looks like.
The ballroom is a wash of sterile white and gold. Guests in designer black drift through the light, their champagne flutes catching the glare, every movement rehearsed to perfection.
And every perfect detail, every seamless transition, is mine.
“You sure you don’t want me to hover?” Trey asks, adjusting his tie for the tenth time. He's my plus-one tonight, and my emotional support person for the evening.
After Adrian's call and that message about the venue's lighting, I wasn't about to navigate tonight alone. The invitation said to bring someone important, and I decided I would.
“Have a glass of champagne,” I tell him, handing off a seating chart to another intern. “And if anyone asks, you’re my date, not my bodyguard.”
He grins. “Can’t I be both?”
A small smile touches my lips. “Just stay close.”
He gives a mock salute before disappearing into the crowd, and I watch him thread through suits and sequins like he was born to own this room.
“Lighting cue three to half,” I call, headset pressed to my ear. “VIP seating confirmed for the front row. No, swap the place cards. Ms. Dennings is allergic to orchids.”
Across the room, I catch sight of the trio looking every bit the empire they built. From this distance, they’re seamless. Nate holds court with the board, posture military-straight. Near the stage, Elias speaks with security, his massive frame contained but not coiled. And Jace handles the press with a devastating charm that betrays none of the tension holding them all together.
A PR assistant runs up, breathless. “Miss Harper,” she says. “The live-stream’s ready. Mr. Blackwell wants final clearance on the prototype display.”
“Tell him it’s approved,” I say. “And remind him he has eight minutes until showtime.”
She nods and rushes off.
The space fills, music swells, and cameras flash. My headset buzzes with overlapping chatter. I move through it all, the calm center of a storm I designed.
The stage lights catch the crystal chandeliers, scattering reflections across the ballroom. I remember helping design this event, how Nate wanted it to feel like “the future of pleasure itself.”
It’s beautiful. It’s sterile. It’s everything we are now.
A soft voice cuts through behind me.
“Ms. Harper, you’re a miracle worker.” I look over my shoulder. One of the board members smiles, holding his glass high. “Couldn’t have done any of this without you.”
“Thank you,” I say, and the words sound practiced, polished.
Backstage glows in soft cool gold tones, the thrum of the ballroom vibrating through the curtain.
My reflection stares back from a mirrored column near the stage, flawless on the outside. The dress the guys insisted on months ago hugs every line of me, black silk with a slit high enough to make walking feel like a performance.
