At VIP Table 4, located mere feet from the front edge of the stage, Graham Whitlock took a slow sip of his vintage champagne. His arm rested casually along the back of Paige’s chair. He looked bored, politely clapping as the jazz band finished their introductory set.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Master of Ceremonies’ voice boomed through the state-of-the-art sound system, echoing off the gold-leafed vaulted ceilings. “Please welcome the visionary founder and sole director of The Aria Trust… Ms. Sadie Vance.”
Graham’s champagne glass halted halfway to his mouth.
His entire body went completely, rigidly stiff. The muscles in his neck locked.
I stepped out from behind the heavy velvet curtains and walked confidently into the blinding, brilliant white spotlight center stage.
I didn’t frantically scan the crowd looking for his face. I didn’t need to. I commanded the massive room with the easy, terrifying, untouchable grace of a queen surveying her kingdom.
I stepped up to the microphone. For three minutes, I spoke passionately and eloquently about the power of maternal love, the agony of infertility, and the miraculous, life-altering joy of the children we fight so hard to bring into the world. My voice echoed with perfect clarity over the five hundred billionaires, politicians, and socialites sitting in rapt attention.
Then, I paused. I turned away from the microphone and looked toward the dark wing of the stage. I smiled and held out my hand.
“I’d like to take a moment to introduce you all to the very reason this foundation exists,” I said softly, my voice carrying a profound, undeniable warmth. “My inspiration.”
From the shadows of the wings, my trusted nanny stepped forward, gently releasing a tiny hand.
Aria, wearing a miniature silver sequined dress and tiny silver shoes, toddled out onto the massive stage under the bright lights. She had a mop of dark, bouncing curls. She didn’t look at the massive crowd. She walked straight to me, wrapping her little arms tightly around my knees, burying her face in the emerald silk of my dress. Then, she peeked out, looking at the audience with wide, unmistakable, piercing hazel eyes.
At Table 4, Graham’s champagne glass slipped from his paralyzed fingers.
It hit the marble floor, shattering violently, the expensive alcohol splashing against the hem of Paige’s gown.
He didn’t notice. He had completely stopped breathing.
He stared up at the two-year-old girl standing on the stage. His mind, trained for years in corporate analytics, violently, frantically crunched the numbers.
Two years old. Nine months of pregnancy.
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