I stood at the back of the room, heels pinching, breath shallow, watching strangers take their seats in rows of folding chairs that had never been this full.
We’d done these fundraisers before, held raffles, given speeches, and shaken hands with city officials who showed up late and left early.
But this one felt different.
It was the first time we’d sold out. The first time, we had to switch to a bigger room to accommodate the demand.
The first time, the crowd wasn’t just regulars and loyalists.
First time I saw faces I didn’t recognize mixed with people who’d never used to care.
People were finally paying attention.
And I knew why.
Because Remi Carter didn’t know how to let things die quietly.
She stepped onto the stage without ceremony. No fanfare. No preamble.
Just her and a mic.
Remi wore black.
Not the flirty kind, not cocktail lace or glittering straps or whatever trendy excuse people used to make grief look fashionable.
No, this was raw grief.
Fitted to the collarbone. Long sleeves. No shine. No frills.
A dress that on anyone else would’ve looked plain. Severe.
But on Remi?
It looked like elegance dipped in rebellion.
Like armour stitched from silence and grit.
She didn’t need sparkle. Didn’t need to flash skin or wear soft colours to make people comfortable.
She stood there in black, not to mourn, but to remember. To remind.
It wasn’t fashion.
It was defiance.
And she wore it better than anyone else in the room ever could.
Looking at her, you’d never know she’d faced down a drugged-out giant three weeks ago.
That she’d taken the brunt of a man’s violence so another woman could live.
She stood tall like nothing could reach her now.
And maybe nothing could.
I felt Harlan shift beside me, the tension in his shoulders coiling like he already knew this speech wasn’t going to go down easy.
Jack was here too, standing off to the side of the crowd, arms folded, tie loosened, eyes fixed on her like he wanted to stop time just to keep her in it.
