Chapter 90

Chapter 90
Garrett’s POV

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

They talked about list of potential people to invite and who's presence will have a deep impact, but they called his name? They called Dr Richard?

“Yes, Dr Richard. He has helped acrossed the state, had a few impact in public relations and even raised funds for several medical research programs. His presence would go a long way for the gala, especially since he’s been contributing to the medical field for over a decade.”

The room hummed with murmurs of agreement. I saw heads nodding, some of them too quickly, like they wanted to move on without questioning it.

From the minute his name hung in the air, my chest tightened, and all the easy rhythm of note-taking and nodding along was gone.

Another board member leaned forward, his tone smooth, too practiced. “It’s not just his medical reputation. He’s visible, he’s respected, and he’s got connections that stretch farther than we realize. Politicians, foreign sponsors, even health tech companies, he could pull strings. We’d be fools to overlook someone like him.”

“Numbers don’t lie,” Adams chimed in. “His campaigns for opioid awareness, the grants he’s arranged for small hospitals… We all know those headlines boosted every project he was involved in. Imagine attaching that to our gala. The credibility alone would double the coverage.”

My pen stopped moving. I hadn’t realized how tight I was holding it until the edge bit into my fingers. The sound of Richard’s name bouncing around the conference table was already enough to sour the air for me, but hearing people praise him as if he was some savior made bile creep up the back of my throat.

“He’s practically a golden ticket,” Mrs. Flora added, her bracelets jingling as she gestured. “Medical presence equals credibility. Families trust doctors. The press eats that up. If he agrees to headline, every other name will want to be on that list too.”

I looked down at my notes, but the words blurred together. Headline. Credibility. Golden ticket. All lies dressed up as accolades.

“He could even help us secure donations from pharmaceutical sponsors,” another voice added. “If he pitches the charity angle right, they’ll want their logos plastered across every photo.”

More nods. More murmurs of approval. And all the while, my jaw was tightening.

Finally, someone turned to me. “Mr. Blackthorn, you’ve been quiet. You’ve always had sharp instincts when it comes to reputations. What’s your take? Surely you see the value of inviting Dr Richard.”

Every eye seemed to turn, even if subtly, and I felt the weight of their expectation pressing down on me. For a moment, I considered the polite, neutral response, the kind of corporate mask I’d worn more times than I cared to count. But something inside refused to play along.

I leaned back, deliberately slow, my gaze as cold as the air I dragged into my lungs. “No.”

The silence that followed was heavier than anything said before.

“No?” Adams repeated, eyebrows climbing.

“That’s correct,” I said evenly, tapping my pen once against the folder before setting it down completely. “I don’t support his presence here.”

A ripple of confusion moved around the table. A few exchanged glances, others frowned as if I’d just spoken in another language.

“Garrett,” Mrs. Flora started carefully, “with respect, why? The man’s reputation speaks for itself.”

“Reputation is just the mask people choose to wear,” I said, voice low but firm. “And if that’s what we’re relying on, then we’re already mistaken.”

Someone scoffed lightly, trying to cut the tension. “Surely you don’t mean that. The man’s been published in international journals, his programs have saved lives. Someone like you wouldn’t be able to relate to the kind of ground-level impact he’s made.”

My gaze snapped to them instantly, cold enough to freeze the air between us. I didn’t raise my voice, but the edge was sharp enough to slice through their condescension. “Someone like me wouldn’t need to. Because I see past the polished headlines.”

That drew a stillness across the room, but I didn’t stop there. “Dr Richard’s name might glitter in articles, but I’ve seen enough men like him. They don’t give without expecting leverage. They don’t show up unless there’s something in it for them. You’re calling it charity. He’ll call it business.”

A beat of silence, then another voice challenged, “That doesn’t erase what he’s done, though. Whatever his motives, his contributions have results. Lives changed, hospitals funded. You can’t deny that.”

“I’m not denying the math,” I said flatly suddenly leaning in to tap the table. “I’m saying math alone doesn’t make a man worth standing beside. If this gala is about image, fine, parade him across your guest list. But don’t pretend it makes the purpose any nobler.”

I could feel the tension tightening, a few people shifting uncomfortably. Some of them were eyeing me like I’d broken some unspoken rule of the game, like disagreeing this strongly was out of line.

But I wasn’t here to stroke egos, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to sit through them praising a man who had hollowed me out years ago.

The chairman cleared his throat, the sound loud in the thick silence. “Mr. Blackthorn… what exactly do you have against Dr Richard?”

For a heartbeat, I almost answered. Almost gave them the truth that burned like acid at the back of my throat.

But I saw their faces, expectant, doubtful, already weighing whether my word could outweigh the glittering numbers and headlines.

It wouldn’t. Not here. Not against the tide already pulling them in.

So I exhaled, slowly, and let my shoulders ease as if my resistance had been nothing more than hesitation. My fingers drummed once on the table before I slid the pen back into place.

“You’re right,” I said at last, voice smooth, stripped of the earlier edge. “His name does carry weight. If the gala’s goal is reach and visibility, then attaching him makes strategic sense.”

A murmur of relief swept the table, the tension dissolving too quickly.

I forced a measured nod, even managed the ghost of a smile. “I’ll draft the outreach myself. No one else here will frame it better.”

They took it as agreement. None of them noticed the steel still buried in my tone, the quiet calculation
already shifting beneath the mask.

Sometimes approval is the cleaner blade.