Page 119 of Dial F for Finance

Her mouth tugs up, but the worry stays locked behind her eyes.

“You know, if this is some guy sending my wife high-end mystery gifts, I want to know his return address.” I flex my shoulder, rolling the box for effect. “I’m not much of a fighter, but I won Golden Gloves in high school. Don’t make me dust off the championship hands.”

Jenna folds her arms and watches the floor numbers tick upward. By three, she’s stopped pretending not to worry.

“This is how identity theft starts,” she mutters.

“I assure you, most identity theft attempts don’t start with luxury stationery and hand delivery.”

“Exactly,” she whispers, sharp as glass. “Who tracks me well enough to know when I’ll be home, but not well enough to realize I hate surprise gifts?”

“Someone with access to your Outlook?” The elevator slows. “An enterprising intern?”

She says nothing, which means: plausible, but it’s not her top concern.

We step into the hallway, and she unlocks her door with two practiced flicks of the wrist. When we’re inside, she immediately scans every corner of the apartment. It’s neurotic, but the place is exactly as we left it: minimal, clean, like no one really lives here, even though it’s been hers for eight years.

I set the box on the marble counter and slide the envelope off the top, holding it out to her. The wax seal is pressed with the letter J, and I watch about a dozen emotions flit across her face before she takes it from me.

“It’s from Willa James,” she says.

“That explains the seal.”

“Handwritten.” She turns the card over like there might be a disclaimer. “Personally. She—” Jenna clears her throat and reads. “‘Your work on the Nakamura partnership was the talk of my dinner table for a week. NeuraTech will finally go to market and help the people who need it most because of you. I’d be honored if you’d attend as my personal guest. The gown is yours regardless—my designer has an instinct for remarkable women. Bring whomever you like. —Warmly, Willa.’” She looks up. “There’s a plus one.”

“There’s always a plus one.” I’m grinning so hard my face hurts. “Jen. Do you know what that card is?”

“It’s an invitation, Dominic. To a gala I was already going to. Roz and I run logistics for the Mercer Capital and Cruz Financial tables every year.”

“No.” I take the card from her, hold it up like evidence. “Look at the name. That’s not addressed to the ‘Mercer Capital team.’ That doesn’t say ‘spouse of table sponsor.’ It says Jenna Pemberton, invited by Willa James, personally, for the work you did. Do you understand how huge it is to get invited to the Azure Room?”

“The Azure Room,” she repeats, flat.

“Cocktail hour before the main event. Thirty people, maybe forty. Willa picks the list herself—no sponsors, no tables, no assistants with clipboards. Just the people she’s decided matter this year, drinking very old champagne in a very blue room.” I can hear my own voice doing the thing it does when I’m proud enough to float. “Do you know how many massive deals start as a conversation in that room? And you’re on the list, sweetheart. Not through Bennett. Not through me. You earned this on your own. I’m so fucking proud of you.” I take her hand and spin her, right there in the kitchen, her heels skidding on the tile, the afternoon light catching her hair, and she comes around laughing despite every committee in her head voting against it. “You’re going to be the belle of the ball, Jen.”

“OK, calm down.” She retrieves her hand and smooths her sweater like the spin might have left evidence. “It’s a dress and a party. Rich people congratulating each other with a charity attached. I’ve run the spreadsheets on these things—do you know what the per-head costs, versus what actually reaches the foundation⁠—”

“Don’t you dare audit your own Cinderella moment.”

“I’m not auditing. I’m contextualizing.” But her thumb is moving over Willa’s handwriting, back and forth, like she’s checking the ink is real. “The plus one. We already have tickets—you have your own table.”

“Bought and paid for. Which means that plus-one is yours to spend.” I lean against the island. “Field will be here in three weeks for the Nakamura implementation review and the gala. If Hailey gets through Tuesday’s video call, he wants to hold the in-person interview while he’s in Chicago.”

Her eyes come up. I watch the idea land.

“She’ll already be here.” She reaches for her phone. “She can fly in Wednesday, interview Friday, stay through the weekend and come with me.”

“There she is.”

“I’ll need her measurements immediately. We have three weeks to find her a dress.”

The phone’s already in her hand, and I take great delight in watching her go from completely dismissive to overcome with joy.

I move out of the way and watch Jenna pace from the kitchen to the window, card and invitation flapping at her side, her face pure strategy. She’s plotting—I can see the threads lay themselves out on the floor, color-coded and cross-linked, her brain a machine of terrifying grace.

“Hails,” she says when her sister picks up. Within three seconds, the conversation becomes a full tactical deployment.

“I know! Can you believe it? No, not just the normal thing—a real invitation, from the woman herself. And the note is . . .” She trails off, giggling into her wrist like she’s blocking a cough. “Hails, there’s no world where you wear a prom dress to a downtown gala. I’m serious. No⁠—”