The name was a pebble dropped in still water. Chloe's lashes lowered, then lifted. "Why?"
"She used to stand next to you like a right arm," he said. "And now you ask me if I'm dating the woman on that stage, but you flinch at your friend's name. So—how is she?"
Chloe's laugh was short. "Concern noted. Not required."
"Isn't she your best friend?"
"She was," Chloe said, and the word landed sharp. "Until she slept with my boyfriend. Past tense. Past everything."
Jake took a breath, measured. He pulled a crisp handkerchief from his pocket and held it toward her. "For what?"
"My makeup isn't running," she said, refusing it.
"It's not for your face." He pocketed it again. "Sometimes you wipe your hands before you shake new ones."
Her mouth curved, reluctant. "That's your pep talk?"
"That's my observation." He paused, then added, "You and Nadia made sense. As allies. As a wall. I don't know her side, and I'm not asking for it. But broken doesn't always mean finished."
Chloe looked away, to the sliver of city beyond the garage. "The bridge burned," she said. "Some things do." She pushed off the thought like a step. "And no, I'm not jealous of Samantha. If that's the next question."
"It wasn't."
"Good." She reached for the door back to the gala and, over her shoulder, threw, "Whatever you think you see, keep it off my family."
"Noted," he said. *****
When they re-entered the ballroom, the noise rolled over them again—cameras, laughter, deals half-finished and none forgotten.
At the foot of the stage, the questions kept coming.
"Miss Bradley—are you concerned about legal action from Ms. Monroe?"
"Will you open the findings to the board?"
"Is Elevate prepared for shareholder pushback?"
Samantha lifted a hand and the room stilled faster than any stage manager could have achieved. "This is my closing statement," she said. "We'll release a formal summary to stakeholders, and we'll cooperate with any necessary review—as we always do. Tonight, we set a standard. Tomorrow, we execute. Elevate builds quietly, and we correct loudly. That balance will not change."
"Miss Bradley, one more—"
"That's it," said the event's head of communications, easing the semicircle back. "Thank you."
Still, they crowded in for one last shot, one last angle. Samantha stepped away from the scrum—one, two, three precise steps that restored her orbit.
"Miss Bradley."
Nick.
He moved through the press with practiced ease, that dynasty confidence worn like a second skin. Not a man looking for attention—just a man who never had to compete for it.
Samantha turned, the shadow of a smile not reaching her eyes. "Mr. Carter."
"Nick," he corrected, a little quick, like he didn't want the formality between them. "That was… impressive."
"Facts usually are."
He smiled at that, a flash of charm he didn't bother to hide. "I'd like to host you," he said, lower now, private. "Dinner. My family. Tomorrow or the next night, if you can make it."
There it was. The door she'd built all night, opening itself. The quickest route wasn't always a straight line—it was the line that looked like their idea.
"I'm a busy woman," she said, not apologizing. "I'll have my assistant coordinate."
"Good," he said. "I'll make sure it works."
"Bro—" Chloe slid in, appearing as if she'd always been standing there. "We should go."
Nick's eyes flicked to her. Surprise touched his face and was gone—Chloe didn't usually leave parties before the parties ended.
"Right," he said. "Samantha, meet my sister, Chloe."
They faced each other for the first time without a crowd between them. Chloe held out her hand. "Miss Bradley."
"Chloe Carter," Samantha said, taking her in. A fractional tilt of her mouth might have been a smirk. Might have been nothing. "Nice to finally meet you."
Before either could let that settle, a familiar voice chimed in, bright and perfectly on time.
"Wow," Kate said, easing into the small circle with a glittering smile. "What did I miss?"
Samantha released Chloe's hand. "Mrs. Carter."
"Please," Kate said, pressing a hand to her chest lightly. "Kate." She extended her hand, palm delicate, fingers immaculate.
Samantha's eyes flicked, not to the hand, but beyond it. Lynn was already moving.
"Ma'am," Lynn murmured, appearing at Samantha's side like punctuation. She slipped a small bottle into Samantha's free hand and poured a precise line of sanitizer into her palm. "Your doctor's note," Lynn reminded, softly enough that only this tight circle could hear. "No more handshakes."
Samantha stilled, then nodded once. She rubbed her hands together, the clean scent cutting through perfume and champagne.
"I almost forgot," she said, tone apologetic without a hint of weakness. "Kate, I've shaken too many hands tonight. I have to consider my health. Another time."
For a beat, Kate's hand hung in the air, a portrait of social grace dangling. She caught it, let it settle to her side, and pasted the right smile back on. "Of course," she said lightly. "Another time."
Lynn's tablet chimed. She glanced down. "Your car is ready."
Samantha's attention cut back to Nick for a fraction. "Lynn will call your office," she said. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight," Nick said, stepping back, mind already racing.
"Miss Bradley," Chloe added, something unreadable in her eyes.
Samantha nodded—then she and Lynn peeled away together, the crowd opening without being asked. The rhythm of her heels didn't hurry. It never did. *****
Outside, the night had gone deep and cold. Drivers idled in a line of sleek shadows. As the interior door swept open, the wind pressed a breath of winter against stone. Their car eased up to the awning. The driver stepped out, opened her door, and stepped aside without a word.
Samantha paused before she got in and turned to Lynn. "You knew she was about to offer her hand."
"I always do," Lynn said. No pride. Just truth.
"And you cut it off without making a scene."
"That's the job," Lynn replied. "You didn't hire me to pass you pens."
Samantha's mouth curved. "No," she said. "I didn't. Thank you."
Lynn moved to the front as Samantha got in. The door closed on the noise and opened on silence. Leather, low light, the city's pulse muffled behind tinted glass.
Samantha took out her phone and typed, fast, clean.
Leaving. —S
She hit send.
Back inside, the crowd hadn't thinned; it had thickened. The press replayed everything she'd said in real time. A media exec to a congressman: "She just set the tone for a decade." A banker to a venture partner: "She's going to reprice half this city."
Jake felt the buzz in his pocket, glanced down at the screen, and didn't answer. He slipped the phone away and looked up, scanning past heads, lights, angles. For a second, the ballroom felt like a chessboard he could actually see. Knights. Queens. A king pretending he didn't need protecting.
"Nick," Kate said, tugging his sleeve. "Let's go."
He didn't move. Not yet. He watched the doors Samantha had just ghosted through and thought about timing, leverage, loss. He thought about the woman who had just told the city she was done asking permission.
"Chloe?" Kate said, trying again. "You coming?"
Chloe didn't answer. Across the room, a German tech magnate caught her eye and lifted his glass like an invitation. Carlos. She offered him a small nod, not a smile. Later.
Near the base of the stage, a junior reporter clicked through photos on her camera. Every third frame was Samantha—chin lifted, eyes cutting. She leaned to her colleague. "This will be everywhere in an hour," she said.
"Already is," he replied, holding up his phone. The first push alert had hit: Samantha Bradley Fires Executive Live at Elevate Gala.
In the car, Lynn glanced at Samantha through the rearview. "Tomorrow?" she asked.
"Early," Samantha said. "We need a short list for General Manager on my desk by seven a.m. Invite open applications—two hours only. Make it a line people will remember."
"What's the line?"
Samantha watched the city slide by—the way money glowed in windows and ambition burned in eyes. "Tell them Elevate promotes competence," she said. "And competence doesn't sleep."
Lynn's mouth tugged, a ghost of a smile. "Understood."
Samantha leaned her head back for the first time that night, not to rest—just to look up. Past the ceiling, past the glass, past the carved New York cold, she could feel the next move gathering its weight.
Behind them, the gala swirled on. Nick charted angles. Kate repaired optics. Chloe filed away a conversation with a man who didn't answer questions he didn't like. The press fed the city. The city fed on it.
Samantha didn't look back.
"Home," she said.
The driver pulled them into the dark like it belonged to her.