Which never happens unless someone’s either getting promoted or fired.
“You free tomorrow night?” he asks.
I blink. “Uh… yeah?”
“Corporate dinner. Harbor Club. Old guard’s thing. Wives invited. Show face.”
Oh.
That kind of thing.
The kind where you’re not networking—you’re auditioning.
“Bring Sage,” he adds. “These guys like to see stability.”
Stability.
Like she’s a résumé bullet point.
Still.
My chest tightens a little.
Pride.
Because that means something.
It means I’m being seen. Jim’s never met Sage just hears all the shit the guys talk in the breakroom.
This is either going to be a great success or a great disaster. I’ll just make sure Sage drinks wine spritzers and like one.
She shows up ten minutes late.
On purpose.
I know she does.
Because she likes entrances.
And Jesus Christ.
Every head in the lobby turns.
Not because she’s loud.
Because she’s quiet.
Classy.
Black dress. Simple. Elegant. No skin. No drama. Pearls at her ears. Hair smooth and glossy. Makeup soft and expensive-looking. Short French manicure.
No cleavage.
No chaos.
Just power.
She looks like money.
