Page 120 of Dial F for Finance

There’s an eruption of noise on the other end. I make out the words “sequins” and “strapless” and something that sounds like “I will not be tamed, Jenna,” which is the sort of sibling drama I can only admire for its tenacity.

“That’s not a rule, it’s a kindness to your future self. There’ll be cameras, Hails. I’m not even being dramatic.” Her face splits into a huge, involuntary smile and then goes weirdly soft. “No, I’m excited. Yes, if Tuesday goes well, they’ll schedule the final interview for the week of the gala. If you stay through Sunday, you can come with me Saturday night. Yes. OK. Love you. Shut up, you too. Bye.”

She hangs up, pivots, and sees me standing there, grinning like a Colgate ad for people with zero chill or boundaries. I’ve just witnessed something fucking amazing. Jenna Pemberton—excited.

“She’s in,” Jenna says, but her voice has a weird, gentle underlayer, like she forgot to filter it for public consumption. “If the final interview goes ahead, she’ll stay through Sunday. If it doesn’t, she’s coming for the gala anyway.” She hooks her thumb through the card, uses it to point at the box on the counter. “She tried to tell me she didn’t need a dress for the gala. That she could just wear the one she wore to senior prom. She said it still fits.”

I laugh. “Was it, like, full Disney princess? Or more of a femme fatale thing?”

Jenna’s mouth quirks, but she doesn’t look up. “It was . . . neither. It was a disaster. She looked like a frosted disco ball. The bodice was made of sequins, there were—” she shudders—“cutouts. I think it was listed as ‘statement backless’ but in reality it was just a strip of plastic tape holding it all together.” She exhales out her nose. “I had to staple her into it.”

“And she wants to wear it again?”

She shakes her head. “I’m sure she’s just trying to rile me up. She knows how much I hated that thing.”

I slide my palms along the island and lean across, getting into her space. “What did your prom dress look like?”

Jenna’s eyes freeze, then flick up to mine. The color on her cheeks decides to evacuate. “Oh. Uh, I didn’t go to prom.”

Bullshit detector: redline.

“You didn’t go? You, who I imagine ran her high school like a committee and organized bake sales?”

“High school wasn’t quite like that for me.” Her spine straightens and she sets the invite back on the counter slowly. “We need to get ready,” she says, like it’s a fire drill. “I need to put together a draft agenda by end of day. I’ll shower first.”

She picks up the whole box, carries it into the bedroom, and pushes it onto the high shelf of her closet. Still in its ribbon. Still sealed. The way you’d store something you didn’t plan to look at again.

“Jen?”

“Twenty minutes, remember?” Her voice is fine. Her voice is completely fine, which is how I know something big just happened.

She disappears into the bathroom. I stare after her, standing in her bedroom looking at a shut closet door with the box inside it. I feel like a man who just watched a bird fly into a window nobody knew was there.

She didn’t go to prom?

I don’t know whether she wasn’t asked, got stood up, or something worse. I only know she put a designer gown on the highest shelf in her closet and escaped into the shower like I’d found a locked drawer.

I went to two proms. I barely remember either beyond cheap tuxes, bad music, and one police escort I maintain was a misunderstanding.

But I went.

I showed up.

Jenna didn’t.

By the time the shower starts, an idea is already taking shape.

If she didn’t get a prom then, I’ll give her one now.

Not balloon arches and rented tuxes. The billionaire version. A vintage car at the curb. A tuxedo cut to match her gown. Me waiting with a flower, making sure she never has to wonder whether the man taking her is proud to be seen with her.

It’s not a surprise, because she knows the gala is coming. It’ll simply be an upscaled version of her current expectations.

Perfectly acceptable.

I pull out my phone and send the first message.

The shower stops not long after, and the bathroom door clicks open, releasing a cloud of steam and the sharp, clean scent of her body wash. Jenna emerges tightly wrapped in a white towel, her sleek dark hair damp, her thumb already flying across her phone screen.