Page 16 of His Obsession
“Timing slips at the top all the time. Flights get delayed. Hair and makeup runs long. Someone important gets stuck in traffic because they refuse to leave ten minutes earlier than the rest of civilization. That part is normal. Good event management absorbs delay.”
He watches me for a second, then says, “And you know how to absorb it?”
“Yes,” I answer confidently.
“How?”
I flip to a blank page in my notebook and start sketching sequence shifts, showing him all the ways we can build seamless buffers to keep the event moving without anyone noticing delays. When I look up, he’s not looking at the page. He’s looking at me.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
The air between us shifts for a second, goes thinner somehow. I set my pen down.
“All right,” I say on a long exhale. “You’ve put me through the wringer. I’ve given you an hour more than I usually give for initial meetings. Do I have the job?”
He considers me for a moment, mouth pressed into a firm line.
“If anything goes wrong during the gala, you’ll handle it with the same coordination and grace you’ve shown in this meeting.” It isn’t a question. It’s a stipulation.
“Of course.” I nod. “That’s literally what I do. The guests will never know anything went wrong, and you won’t have to deal with a thing.”
“You won’t hand me excuses for why the bar is backed up and the keynote speaker is drunk in the green room?”
I roll my eyes.
“None of that’s going to happen,” I say. “Because my team will have already thought through every possible disaster and prepared for it ahead of time.”
“And how much am I paying for that level of detail?”
I take a breath and slide my printed rate sheet across the table. “This is my fee.”
He glances down at it.
“That includes lead planning, execution, staffing oversight, timeline management, vendor coordination, and on-site direction,” I say. “Anything added after scope confirmation gets billed separately. If your people make last-minute changes that require more labor, that gets billed too.”
He reads the page once, grabs a pen, scribbles something, and hands the paper back to me.
“This is your fee,” he says. “From here on out.”
I look down at the paper, and it’s more than twice what I usually charge. I thought he was joking about doubling my fee. Whether it’s clean money or dirty money is none of my concern.
I blink at the paper, but keep my face as composed as possible despite the thrill running through me.
“Fine,” I say. “That’s my fee.”
“Accepted,” he says.
“Great,” I say, gathering my things. “I’ll send over a formalized contract once I’m back at my office.”
He reaches into his event folder, pulls out a pre-drafted agreement, and slides it to me.
I look at it, then at him. “You already had a contract ready?”
“Yes.”
“You already included my fee,” I say, staring at the paper with equal parts amusement and irritation.
