Already got my name on it.
Chapter Three
Ivy
“And once we go live, there are no second takes,” I say, clicker poised—my tiny weapon of authority.
Behind me, the slide readsSingles Activism Weekend: Production Frameworkin a clean navy font. It looks sleek, authoritative, stable. Unlike me ten minutes ago in the lobby bathroom, where I was scrubbing green sludge off my cleavage while I muttered affirmations into a paper towel dispenser.
Thank God for the backup blazer in my suitcase.My skin still feels tacky under my silk blouse, but at least I no longer smell like a lawnmower’s sweaty armpit.
Twenty people sit around the Bellwether’s conference table, and every one of them is locked in. The ocean breeze slips through the cracked windows, skimming over the polished wood, as if the room itself wants to hear what comes next.
I focus on the slide. The bullet points. The cadence of my voice.
Correction: Itryto focus on the slide. The bullet points. The cadence of my voice.
I gotta stop thinking about thumbs.
Specifically, the thick, calloused, I-could-snap-a-pencil-with-two-fingers thumbs belonging to the man sitting three feet away. So close that his whiskey scent keeps finding me without permission.
I amnotthinking about the heat of his palm splayed wide across my hip, the weight of it, the intention. I amabsolutelynot thinking about the squeeze—the deliberate, you’re-not-going-anywhere squeeze—that sent a charge up my spine so fast my nipples got the message before my brain did.
Why the hell did it take me so long to realize his arm was still around my waist?
And why do I get the feeling he was about to pull me flush against him and—
Focus, Ivy.You’re running a production meeting. Don’t let Cole “High-Risk, High-Reward” Hartwell skew your data.
Shut. It. Down. Now.
“Nothing this weekend gets packaged, edited, or wrapped in a bow after the fact,” I say, clicking to the next slide. “The Welcome Gala tonight, tomorrow’s Beach Cleanup, Sunday’s Sea Lion Viewing. All of it streams live to Dare4Change’s full donor base.”
I give it a beat. Let it land…
A finger goes up.
“Juliette Vexford.” She says her name the way people sayobjection.“Senior Events Coordinator for Hotel Bellwether.”
She’s immaculate. Late fifties, I’d guess. Honey-blonde hair pulled into a severe low bun. Cream tailored suit without a wrinkle. Pearl studs and a necklace that look generational. A leather-bound clipboard sits perfectly aligned in front of her.
“My concern,” Juliette continues, “is whether the livestream positions the Bellwether as a venue…” She pauses, savoring every syllable. “Or as a backdrop.”
She says it like an accusation.
“Let me be clear, thereisa difference,” she adds, taking a stern look at Blaze. “Hotel Bellwether is an institution. We have hosted governors and nobility. I expect your framing to honor its legacy.”
Cole’s energy shifts beside me.Here we go.
“Oh, we’re not only preserving that legacy,” Cole says. “We’re amplifying it—”
I cut in. “Ballroom wide shots to capture the timeless chandeliers. Terrace footage that keeps the famous red roof and coastline in frame. Lower-thirds to identify the Bellwether by name at regular intervals. Our audience will fall in love with this place.”
Silence.
Juliette studies me and writes something on her clipboard. The fast flick of her pen makes me nervous.
“Going live is where we win the internet,” Cole says, reclaiming the air. “Energy. Spontaneity. When something unexpected happens, that’s the hook for the algorithm.”
