Page 2 of Her Sun-Drenched Billionaire

“First Light Scholars serves sixty-two kids right now,” I said. “Ages twelve to eighteen. Mentorship, tutoring, college-access programming. We help them stay in the system when the system isn’t built to keep them.” I paused. “Last month, a girl named Ava got into NC State. Full ride. She’s the first person in her family to go to college, and she called me from her kitchen withher mom screaming in the background. Ava couldn’t even talk. She just kept laughing.”

His jaw shifted—a slow movement, like he was turning something over before he let it out. “How many have you lost?”

The question hit hard. Nobody asked that. Everyone wanted the wins, the acceptance letters, the graduation rates, the feel-good numbers.

“Three,” I said. “In two years. One moved out of state, and we couldn’t keep up the mentorship remotely. One aged out of the program before we could secure college funding. One just stopped showing up.”

“The one who aged out,” he said. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. We tried to follow up, but she didn’t answer.”

He looked at his drink, then at the skyline, then back at me.

“I’ll do the keynote.”

I blinked. “Seriously?”

“Twenty minutes. July twelfth. The Evergreen Room.” He said it like he was confirming a meeting he’d already scheduled. “Send the details to my office. Not my assistant. Directly.”

“I don’t have your direct email.”

He pulled out his phone, typed something, and held it up so I could read the screen. I saved the address.

“Can I ask you something?” I said.

“You’ve called me four times this week. I don’t think you need permission.”

“Why now? I’ve been reaching out for three weeks, and you could’ve said yes on the first email.”

He didn’t answer right away. The light had shifted while we were talking, and everything on the rooftop was amber now, warm and drenched in the low sun. It caught the lines of his tattoos, the edge of his jaw, the place where his beard met his throat.

“I’ll send you the details tonight,” I said.

He nodded and finished his drink, then set the glass on the ledge of the fireplace alcove and slid his hands into his pockets. “It’s a good mission. First Light.”

“It’s the only thing that matters to me.”

Something moved across his face. Not a flinch and not a smile—something that came and went before I could define it, like a door opening and closing in the same breath.

“I’ll see you on the twelfth, Eliza.”

He walked toward the stairs. I watched him go, and the stairwell door closed behind him, and the rooftop was mine again. Quiet and gold.

I called Saylor before I made it to the third floor.

“I got him,” I said. “August Quinn. He said yes.”

Saylor screamed into the phone. I held it away from my ear and laughed.

I let myself into 3B and set my keys on the counter. The binder was where I’d left it, sticky notes flagging the venue layout, the catering options, the donor seating chart. I opened my laptop, typed his direct email address into the field, and started writing. I kept my tone professional, warm, and specific. The version of me that knew exactly what she was doing and why.

I hitsendand sat back.

The evening light came through my windows, long and low. The apartment was quiet—the First Light mug on my desk, the framed photo of my mom on the bookshelf, the binder and the lists and the sticky notes. Everything for the gala. Everything for the kids.

I hadn’t asked him why he said yes. He hadn’t told me.

I closed the laptop and sat in the quiet for a long time.