MEMORY PROTOCOL

THE GALA

ETHAN HALE

The smile goes on the moment I step onto the carpet.

It’s automatic. Practiced. The kind of expression that convinces people I’m pleased to be here.

I’m not.

Flashes go off. Names are called. I nod, pause, move. Elise stays half a step behind me—close enough to be heard, far enough to be proper.

“Left,” he murmurs, barely moving his lips. “Kendall Roth. Media. Likes to be acknowledged, hates being cornered.”

I incline my head at the right moment. Roth beams. Satisfied.

We move.

“Straight ahead,” Elise continues. “Board member’s wife. Smile, no engagement.”

I smile. No engagement.

We pass clusters of people, the noise swelling and fading like a tide. Elise keeps pace, voice low, precise.

“Worth your time,” he says quietly. “Later.”

I adjust my cufflinks. Keep smiling.

“Five minutes,” he says under his breath. “Then exit.”

I follow it without question. That’s when I realize it.

I’m not scanning the room anymore. I’m listening to him.

The night refuses to end.

I’ve smiled until my jaw aches, nodded through conversations I’ll forget by morning. Champagne appears in my hand, disappears, is replaced again. The music never changes, only the faces.

Elise remains where he’s supposed to be.

“Two o’clock,” he murmurs. “Donor. Wants reassurance, not promises.”

I turn when I should. Say exactly enough. He’s right.

We move again.

Time blurs into a loop—greetings, laughter, practiced interest. Elise keeps me on course with the lightest cues. A word. A glance.

The longer it goes on, the more I rely on him.

“Not worth it,” he says once, barely audible.

My smile never falters, but my patience thins. The room feels warmer. loosen my tie, then regret it when I catch his eyes flicker there—only for a second.

The night drags.

At some point I realize I haven’t asked a single question. Haven’t needed to. He anticipates everything—when to linger, when to move, when I’ve had enough.

“Three minutes,” he says quietly. “Then we can disappear.”

I exhale through my nose, the smile still in place.

“Make it two,” I murmur.

He inclines his head, already adjusting.

And as the crowd swells around us again, I think—unhelpfully—that this night would have been unbearable without him.

We’re three steps from freedom when a familiar voice cuts in.

“Ethan Hale,” he drawls. “Running already?”

Julian Cross steps into my line of sight, champagne in hand, smile sharp as always. Old money. Old rivalry. Someone who knows exactly how to be irritating in public.

“Julian,” I say, still smiling. “Enjoying the evening?”

“Immensely.” His eyes slide past me. Linger. Return—with interest. “Though I see you are too.”

Julian’s gaze flicks to him again.

“Well,” he says lightly, “you’ve always had an eye for pretty things.”

“That’s an odd thing to say,” I reply evenly.

Julian chuckles. “Is it? You collect them. Art. Architecture. People.” He lifts his glass slightly in Elise’s direction. “Very tasteful.”

“Elise,” I say, not looking at him, “this is Julian Cross. He enjoys hearing himself speak.”

Julian laughs outright. “Oh, I like him already.”

Elise steps half a pace closer.

“Mr. Cross,” he says politely. “Good evening.”

Julian’s smile tightens, just a fraction.

“Careful, Ethan,” he says lightly. “Someone might think you’re getting sentimental in your old age.”

“Good night, Julian.”

I move. Elise moves with me. The crowd parts.

The car slows outside his building.

Elise reaches for the door, then pauses when I speak.

“You handled yourself well tonight.”

“Thank you, sir,” he says, calm as ever.

“You’re under a three-month probation,” I continue. Businesslike. Clean. “Standard terms. You’ll be compensated monthly.”

“Yes, Mr. Hale.”

I nod once. “If this arrangement stops being efficient, it ends.”

“I understand.”

" Get some rest,” I add, already reaching for the door on my side. “Tomorrow starts early.”

He hesitates, just for a fraction of a second. “Good night, sir.”

The door closes behind him.

I watch him disappear into the building before I look away.

Three months. Plenty of time to confirm what I already suspect or prove that this is a mistake I can still walk away from.

Either way, the protocol is in place. And so is he.