Page 15 of Shattered

Now I stood in a ballroom in Midtown, wearing a tuxedo I hated, about to give a speech I’d been dreading for three weeks.

“You look like you’re facing a firing squad,” Mark said beside me.

My assistant was thirty, efficient to the point of telepathy, and had absolutely no respect for brooding. He’d worked for me for four years and I’d never managed to intimidate him once.

“I’d prefer the firing squad,” I said.

“Come on. It’s just five hundred wealthy people judging your every word. What’s stressful about that?”

“Your motivational skills need work.”

“My motivational skills are perfect. You’re just impossible to motivate.” He adjusted his glasses.

“Besides, it’s for orphans. Even you can’t be grumpy about helping orphans.”

The charity gala was raising funds for youth homes across the city—specifically for children who’d aged out of foster care and had nowhere to go. The organizers had asked me to speak six months ago. I’d said no. They’d asked again. I’d said no again.

Then they’d mentioned my story of rising from nothing to something might inspire more donors like me, and I’d run out of ways to refuse.

I hated public speaking—hated being in front of cameras, hated the way people looked at you when you stood on a stage and talked about trauma like it was currency.

But I’d been twelve years old and completely alone once, and if talking about it meant other kids wouldn’t be, then I’d talk. Didn’t mean I had to enjoy it.

“You’ve got two minutes,” Mark said, checking his phone. “Try to smile. You’re convincing people, not threatening them.”

“I don’t threaten people.”

“You absolutely threaten people. It’s your whole thing.”

The emcee called my name. I walked onto the stage, faced five hundred people in evening wear holding champagne glasses, and thought about how much I’d rather be literally anywhere else.

I talked about losing my parents. About being twelve and alone and certain my life was over. About Miguel and Elena Santoro taking me in without hesitation, giving me a home when I had none.

I talked about the kids currently in group homes, about the ones who’d turn eighteen and be released into the world with no family, no support, no safety net. About how money could create programs, housing, mentorship—things that meant the difference between surviving and drowning.

I didn’t mention that I still felt like I was drowning more often than not. That gratitude and guilt were so tangled up I couldn’t separate them. That I’d spent seventeen years trying to be worthy of what the Santoros gave me and never quite believing I’d succeeded.

When I finished, the applause was polite but enthusiastic. People wrote checks. The organizers thanked me. Mark appeared with my coat and an expression that said we could leave now if I moved fast.

We almost made it.

“Axel Irving.” The voice came from behind me, smooth and confident. “Good speech. Almost made me feel things.”

I turned to find Hector Valdez holding a champagne glass, looking completely at ease in a well tailored tuxedo. He had that effortless charisma some people are born with—the kind that made rooms tilt toward him without trying.

“Valdez.” I shook his hand. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I donate to causes that matter. Kids aging out of the system—that matters.” He took a sip of champagne. “The food at these things is always terrible, though.”

“Your restaurants set impossible standards.”

“That’s the point.” He studied me with those sharp eyes that missed nothing. “So. How’s it going with the woman who made you spend obscene amounts of money expanding my restaurant chain?”

Mark made a sound that might have been a cough or might have been a laugh. I ignored him.

“Still complicated,” I said.

Hector’s expression changed—something that looked almost like sympathy crossed his face. “Complicated is expensive. Both emotionally and financially, apparently.”