Page 142 of Dial F for Finance

Somewhere inside, I’m dialing out, counting each second it will take for oxygen to return to this room. I’m not mad at Dominic. I’m not. I know he didn’t mean it like that. That sentimental, bombastic sugar is his love language, and I’m thirty-six years old and entirely unprepared for the fact that love languages can land like old injuries if you aren’t careful.

Willa squeezes my hand.

“Speech, darling,” she whispers.

My worst nightmare. But I stand, because I am the ice queen, and also because my knees have locked against the table and refusing is not an option.

I walk the short distance to the podium. The first step is harder than the rest.

From up here, the blue-white light saps color from everything. I grip the acrylic rails so hard my veins ladder along my wrists. The applause pings off the high ceiling, echoing back like a threat. I breathe once, twice, as Dominic’s hand gently grazes my back on his way to the wings. Normally, his touch is grounding, but in this moment, it’s like antiseptic on grazed skin.

I flinch away. Step up to the podium. Adjust the mic.

“I’m trying to remember the last time anyone called me ‘impossible,’ and the only answer I can come up with is ‘last night at dinner.’”

It works. They laugh, all two hundred of them, releasing a fraction of the pressure.

“I’ll keep this as brief as possible,” I say, which is the corporate way to say “I did not plan on speaking,” but also a lie—I have three speeches for three separate emergencies saved in my Notes app, and none fit this moment. “Tonight, I want to thank the people at this table—” I make eye contact with the judge, who gives me a short, judicial nod—“and all the other tables, as well, for supporting the work, and the mission, and the spirit of innovation in this city.

“For years, Chicago ran on muscle and air. Then it found its brain. What you see in this room tonight is the nervous system—the people who write the code, balance the budgets, debug the timelines, and make the impossible operational before anyone important realizes it was ever in danger.”

I pause and look around the room, hands still shaking.

“I am not an ice queen.” I say it flat, deadpan, and feel the micro quake of suppressed laughter ripple through the tables. “I just hate inefficiency. But you already knew that.” An actual laugh this time, clipping against the ceiling like a glass knocked against tile. “And as for challenges—Mr. Cruz may have run up a respectable chase, but as my father liked to say, the chase is only impressive until you catch the fox and realize she’s been running the hunt the entire time.”

The room erupts. Even the governor two tables over doubles over, and I hear the judge on my left cackle before muting herself with a linen napkin. The words give me ballast, steadying my field of vision enough that I can see Dominic, standing against the back wall, arms crossed, but smiling as he studies me.

I glare at him, letting the laughter ride. I wait for it to almost, almost die out before I turn my attention back to the room.

“My only regret is that this city does not yet have a word strong enough for the women working at its center—the ones who keep the machine running while everyone else is still deciding who gets the credit. If you know one, I suggest you promote her. Or at the very least, try not to challenge her unless you enjoy losing.”

Willa’s rings glint as she brings her hands quietly together, and the whole table follows; a ripple of applause. Even the venture partner, who until now has looked seconds from expiring, goes full-body with the ovation.

I should close there. I know that. But the voice in my head, the one that’s been running cold simulations all night, steps forward with a final suggestion.

“And since everyone’s favorite topic is the future of NeuraTech: don’t bet against the women running it. They remember everything.”

I step back from the microphone. The applause detonates for real this time—long and full and uncoached, and I can’t even pretend to be above it. The back of my neck is fire, but I see Dominic still watching me, expression unreadable, his arms still crossed. He’s waiting, like always, for me to make the next move.

I step down, the adrenaline running its hot, familiar wires through my limbs. Dominic is moving to intercept—a smooth arc, calibrated for audience and wife—but I cut across the floor, squinting against the sudden camera flare from one of the event photographers who’s eager for “the power couple shot.”

My mouth is already in some version of a smile, so the picture will look how pictures always do. One part chemistry, one part prop, one part whatever the person behind the camera is hungry for.

I keep walking. I feel Willa’s hand at my elbow, a quick, proud squeeze, then hear the judge on my left say, “Well played, Pemberton.” I offer her a nod, moving faster now, half-blind and navigating mostly by the noise—two men near the kitchen trading “ice queen” as high compliment, one of them laughing, “Well, Cruz got her in the end,” like I’m a contract that finally signed.

“Jenna,” Dominic says, threading through the periphery, voice low but urgent. “Where are you going?”

I don’t stop, don’t even pivot.

I keep walking, out through the echo of applause that now feels like static, and into the side corridor marked SERVICE. I know the hotel’s layout better than I know my own neurology. I slip through the fire doors, up the short staircase, and into the hotel lobby. My heels hit the marble like clockwork.

“Wait—Jen, please⁠—”

His voice echoes behind me. Not angry. Not even loud. Just . . . desperate.

The lobby is mosaic and chandelier, gold on cold, and for a split second I see our reflection in the wall of mirrors: him, tailored, beautiful, relentless. Me, haze-skinned, bare-shouldered, running on memory and spite.

Outside, the city is humming, wet with the kind of summer rain that has no direction. I walk straight into it. The doorman blinks, uncertain whether to offer me shelter or a car, until Dominic appears at my shoulder.