Chapter 88

Chapter 88
Garrett’s POV

The big conference room was already filled when I walked in. Long shiny table, all those dark leather chairs around it, and men in expensive suits already sitting down with their phones or whispering to each other. The kind of place that smell like coffee and money.

I adjusted my cufflinks because that’s what people like me do when we don’t want to look awkward, then I sat down at my spot. The company logo was shining on the projector screen, waiting for us to start.

I wasn’t the first one here and definitely not the last, but it didn’t matter. All of us in this room had money, power, and our own reasons for being here. They called it a "board meeting between top investors and CEOs," but today it was more like one of those talks where nobody really agrees but still pretends like they do.

The first guy that spoke up was Mr. Adams. He leaned forward, clasped his hands together like some politician.

“Gentlemen,” he said, voice smooth.

“The idea of hosting a charity gala this quarter is not just about philanthropy. It’s about image,” he paused, shifting glancing between us. ”Reputation too. We all know how much that matters in this business. One good gala can soften the press and build credibility we can’t buy through ads.”

A couple of heads nodded but I didn’t. I leaned back and just listened. My phone buzzed on the table but I ignored it for now.

Another voice cut in, this one was sharp, Mr. Clarke. He was always against everything. “Image, yes, but let’s be honest. Do we really need to pour millions into champagne, food, decorations, entertainment, just to look good? We could take that same money and quietly donate it to hospitals or schools and it will do actual good instead of throwing some party for the rich.”

Some men chuckled, some frowned. That’s how it always goes when one disagrees.

I finally picked up my phone to check the buzz. It was Lila. She had send a simple text: "How’s the meeting going?" No emojis, just words. But it made me pause.

She never used to care about things like that, but lately she’s been asking about my day, checking in, making sure I eat or rest. It was… different. Nice different. I stared at the text a moment longer than I should, then locked my phone and put it face down again.

Back in the room, Mr. Hamilton was talking now. “If we do host a gala, the funds raised won’t just disappear into thin air. We can direct them into a community project. For example, there’s been talk about building that new youth center downtown, to keep kids off the streets. It will bring good press, maybe even attract government partnerships.”

That got some nods. It was practical, something you could point to and say, See, this is what our money did.

But then another voice, Mrs. Greene, one of the two women in the room, and honestly sharper than most of the men combined. “Youth center is noble, but what about something with revenue potential? What if we fund a health program or a hospital wing? Something that not only helps people but also ties our names to ongoing projects. That creates steady visibility, not just a one time event.”

This suggestion became fuel for argument. Some agreed with her, some thought it was too much responsibility.

“We’re not here to run charity organizations, we’re here to run businesses.” One said, tapping the table lightly with his finger tips.

“But without goodwill, your business gets eaten alive in the media.” Another shot back quickly.

It went back and forth like that for some minutes. My head was half in the conversation, half on my phone. When I checked again, Lila had sent another message. "Don’t stress yourself too much, okay? Just do your best. You always do."

I couldn’t help the small smile tugging at my mouth. Lately, she’d been so gentle, so thoughtful. Almost like she was making up for old times. And maybe she was. I didn’t know. But it did something to me, softened edges I didn’t realize I had. I typed back quickly, not caring who saw.

"I’ll be fine. Promise. I’ll tell you about it later." Then slipped the phone away.

The chairman cleared his throat to bring the room back in order. “We need to stop circling and decide the purpose of this gala, if we’re having one at all. Is it for publicity, genuine contribution, or partnership opportunities?”

Mr. Adams leaned in again. “It can be all three. Think bigger. We create an annual event, something people look forward to. It becomes tradition. That way, every year our companies gain attention, we fund worthwhile causes, and we build networks with political figures and international investors who attend. Everyone wins.”

Someone muttered under his breath, “Except our bank accounts,” which got a laugh, but the idea was sticking.

I finally spoke up, my voice even. “There’s no point pretending money isn’t involved. But if we do this right, the money we spend comes back in other ways."

Everyone turned heir attention to me now, and I held their attention for a bit longer before continuing. “Publicity, partnerships, even increased trust with clients. People trust businesses that look like they care. That's not weakness—it’s strategy.”

That quieted them for a second. A few men gave slow nods like they were accepting it completely. I didn’t like speaking too much in these things, but sometimes you had to drop one sentence strong enough to keep people listening.

And I was good at that field.

My phone buzzed again and I only had to look once to grab the message. "You sound busy. I’ll let you focus. Just know I’m thinking of you."

I exhaled, rubbing the back of my neck, pretending like I was just stretching. It was ridiculous how such a small text could pull me out of this cold room filled with numbers and strategies, and remind me that someone was waiting for me outside of it. Someone who cared. It even made me smile more than usual.

“There seems to be something more interesting on your phone, Mr. Blackthorn,” one of the women, Mrs. Flora, interrupted, her voice pulling me back into the room.

“Care to share?”