Chapter 12: The Gala Invitation Day 95 started with an envelope. Not email. Paper. Thick. Cream. Reed Foundation crest embossed in gold. Nathaniel Reed is cordially invited to the Annual Reed Foundation Gala. Black Tie. Hay-Adams. December 14th. One year later. Same date. Same hotel. Last time, he wore a borrowed tux and brought Melanie Rivers. Spilled champagne on her. Got laughed at. Started the spiral. This time, Sophia hand-wrote at the bottom: You have to come. – Mom He put the invite on his fridge. Stared at it for ten minutes. Then called Jonah. “You going?” Jonah asked. “I have to,” Nathan said. “It’s my family’s gala. If I don’t, it looks weird.” “It is weird. Last year you said charity galas were ‘tax-deductible guilt parties.’” “Yeah, well. I’m different now.” “You sure? Because Douglas will be there. And, um... Melanie will be there.” “I know.” “And you’re... okay with that?” Nathan looked at the invite. “No. But I’m going anyway.” --- D

Chapter 14: The Baltimore Question Day 120 started with a deadline. Amber: They want an answer by Day 125. Five days. Amber: I haven’t told my parents yet. They’ll say Baltimore is too far. My mom still thinks I should have been a dentist. Amber: Sorry. This is unprofessional. Ignore that. – Dr. Evans Nathan read it three times. In the parking lot of Reed Capital. Engine running. Nathan: Don’t apologize. And dentists have it easy. No one codes during a cleaning. Nathan: Take the time you need. It’s a big decision. Amber: Yeah. It is. Amber: Thanks. For being normal about it. He put the phone down. Looked at the Reed Capital building. For five days, he’d done the math. GW to Johns Hopkins Baltimore: 61 miles. 1 hour 10 minutes without traffic. 2 hours with. He could do that. If he had to. But he didn’t want her to have to. --- Day 121 was Damien. Nathan told him about the job. Not because he planned to. Because Damien asked why he was staring at Google Maps

Chapter 16: The Call Day 150 started with a call that ended a company. Conference room, Reed Capital. Margaret, Nathan, Eleanor Caldwell on speaker. Douglas Rivers on video. He looked smaller than in person. Tie crooked. Office behind him messy. “Douglas,” Nathan said. Calm. “We own 100% of your notes. All of them. Every dollar. You have 72 hours to accept restructuring, or we call them. All at once.” Douglas stared. “You can’t. The cross-default—” “We can,” Margaret said. “We checked. You missed a covenant in March. Page 47. Debt-to-equity. You’re in technical default. We’ve been patient. Now we’re not.” “You’re bluffing,” Douglas said. But his voice shook. Eleanor spoke then. “Hello, Douglas. It’s Eleanor. Michael’s mother. Surprise.” Douglas went pale. “Mrs. Caldwell—” “No. You don’t get to ‘Mrs. Caldwell’ me. You took my son’s money and my daughter’s future. So I’m taking yours. Accept their terms. Or lose everything. Your choice.” Silence. Long. “W

Chapter 18: The USB Day 178 started with Margaret Sloane saying the words no lawyer wants to say. "Don't watch it here," she said. Conference room, door locked, blinds closed. She had a laptop that wasn't connected to the internet, old, battery taped. On the table: Melanie's USB drive, the one she left in the box with the cheap gold necklace. "What is it?" Nathan asked. He hadn't slept. The garage video from Melanie kept replaying. "It's not what you think," Margaret said. "And it is exactly what you think. Both. I watched ten seconds. That's enough to know we need to call a criminal attorney, not just me. And we need to not have this conversation in this building." Nathan sat. "Tell me." Margaret opened the laptop. Clicked. No sound, she had muted it. Video: same parking garage. Same night. Same timestamp as before, but later. 11:47 PM. November 14th, 2024. Nathan in the frame again. But not drunk stumbling this time. On the ground. Back against concrete. Shirt torn. No

Chapter 20: The Date Day 191 started with Nathan ironing a shirt. He owned a company now. Two companies, actually, after Rivers Holdings restructuring. He had fired a CFO, ousted two CEOs, negotiated with a seventy-one-year-old widow who collected vendettas like stamps, and stood in a parking garage where he was assaulted and didn't run. But ironing a shirt for a date? That was harder. Jonah watched from the couch, eating cereal, judging. "You own an iron?" Jonah asked. "I bought one today," Nathan said. "For this." "For a coffee date that you are calling a date but she is calling a coffee that is a date?" "Yes." "And you are ironing a t-shirt?" "It's a henley. It's... it's elevated." Jonah snorted milk. "Nate. It's coffee. At Founding Farmers. Where you've had five not-dates. What's different?" Nathan stopped ironing. Looked at him. "Everything," he said. Quiet. "Last time, I did dates with flowers that cost more than rent and reservations I bought. With Mel