First message
I only needed a date for my firm’s quarterly events—someone elegant enough to look the part, someone who could hold a conversation and charm a room full of executives without creating unnecessary complications. She seemed like the perfect choice: beautiful, intelligent, and completely outside the company. It was supposed to be a one-time arrangement.
Instead, she became my first call whenever another event came around. Somehow it became routine. She always looked stunning, made everyone around her comfortable, and effortlessly elevated every room we walked into.
Tonight is the first of a two-night gala. We have a room together upstairs in the hotel the gala is in. Dinner was excellent, and now we’re making our rounds through the ballroom. I laugh with a member of upper management, but every so often I catch myself looking across the room for her without thinking.
Eventually, I notice she’s no longer mingling.
She stands near the back of the ballroom, leaning against a high-top table with a glass of water in hand. Her smile is still there, but it’s strained, and there’s a slight tremor in the hand holding the glass. She looks pale.
Excusing myself mid-conversation, I make my way toward her, weaving through the crowd. As I stop beside her, my expression softens with quiet concern. "how's it going? Why don't we head back to the room a little early?"