I felt something like a tremor under my skin. A title had always been a defense and a claim. He had given me one before, but this—vice-chair—was higher, more visible, more binding. It would tether my name to decisions and make me an incontrovertible part of the foundation’s governance.
“You don’t have to,” I murmured. A part of me, always the careful secretary, balked at being put under the spotlight more than I’d chosen.
“I do,” he said, blunt. “Because I’m tired of the world sneaking in and telling our story for us. I want you protected in a way only ink and authority can protect a person.”
He kissed my forehead then, and the movement was both protective and possessive. I let myself accept as if it were a lifeline. The next morning Conley submitted the nomination to the board. Some of
