The office atrium still buzzed from what had just happened—Gary Doyle and his clique marched out by security, their badges deactivated mid-stride. Word spread floor to floor like a gust of wind; analysts peered over laptop lids, assistants texted friends in other towers, and someone on the mezzanine whispered, "That's him—the guy who just became President."
Ethan didn't bask. He didn't need to. The System's invisible UI hovered in the edge of his vision, cool and orderly, while the real work clicked into place around him.
"HR has their files," Samantha Reed said, falling in step beside him as they crossed the marble. "We're logging for-cause terminations: retaliation, credit theft, wage manipulation, hostile conduct. We'll document everything, offer witnesses legal protection, and execute a 'do-not-rehire' designation internally."
"No blacklists," Ethan said. "We don't kill people's futures. But if anyone calls, we tell the truth. On paper."
"On paper," she echoed. "Truth is very persuasive."
They reached the curb. The Wraith idled, black as poured ink. A pair of analysts by the revolving door stared like tourist kids watching a rocket launch.
Behind them, the newly unemployed tried last-ditch maneuvers. One of Gary's lieutenants—tie loosened, eyes wild—called out, "You'll owe severance! Ten years, Ethan—I mean, President Walker! You can't just—"
Samantha's gaze slid past him. "For cause limits severance. If he'd like to litigate, our counsel will bring the emails. And the expense reports."
The man's mouth closed. Fear replaced fury.
Ethan gave him a level look that wasn't cruel, just final. "You had a long time to be decent," he said. "You didn't take it."
He climbed into the Wraith.
Inside, the car felt like silence and leather. The city outside rushed by in reflections: steel spines of skyscrapers, billboards flashing like giant eyelids. A steam plume uncurled from a manhole cover like the city exhaling.
"You asked for something celebratory this evening," Samantha said. "Your girlfriend's birthday."
"Right." Emily. The ice of her earlier call still sat under his ribs, but he'd decided: show, don't argue. "Something ridiculous," he said. "Romantic, private, once-in-a-lifetime."
Samantha's fingertips skimmed her phone. "We could buy out Per Se's salon. Or the Rainbow Room. Or—this is sentimental, but—The Plaza's Palm Court. It's theatrical without being tacky."
Memories flashed—movie scenes, porcelain teacups, a ceiling that looked like daytime painted onto night. "The Plaza," he said, already picturing it. "All of it."
"Done." She didn't ask if he was sure. She was already emailing a person who could move mountains with three phone calls. "Live string quartet, bespoke menu, caviar service, champagne saber, floral arch—"
"Keep the music classical," he said. "But not stiff. Juilliard kids who actually smile."
"Perfect." Her thumbs paused, resumed. "And you'll need a gift."
"Tiffany's," he said without thinking.
"Fifth Avenue," she agreed. "Driver, Tiffany & Co. flagship."
The Wraith slid south. Outside, the park turned to storefronts and then to a river of shoppers. When the doorman in navy opened the door, the interior of Tiffany's hit Ethan like cool water: pale stone, leaf-green carpet, light that made facets explode into stars.
A sales associate materialized—makeup immaculate, tone warm without syrup. "Welcome to Tiffany. Looking for anything in particular?"
"Pink diamond," Ethan said. "Elegant, not garish. Necklace or ring."
The associate's eyes flicked to Samantha, took the measure of the situation in half a second, and led them to a private viewing room. She brought options with a careful choreography—trays, velvet, a white-gloved hand steady under the weight of several people's annual salaries.
"Two point three carats," she said, setting one down. "Fancy vivid pink, VS2 clarity, platinum setting with micro-pavé. Understated from across a room, devastating up close."
Under the recessed light, the stone wasn't just pink; it was a color you felt in your throat. Ethan pictured it against Emily's skin, a flash of rose at her collarbone when she laughed. He could see the scene so clearly he flinched.
"I'll take it," he said.
The associate didn't blink. "Of course." Samantha handled the details; Ethan watched the city move through the window, human currents splitting and converging. His phone buzzed: Bank: Incoming wire, $10,000,000. Available balance updated. Another buzz: TGE Concierge: Black-tier digital card provisioned to Apple Wallet. Physical cards in courier.
Samantha glanced at him. "We ran a legal owner's draw through the trust. Tax-clean. Do you want more liquidity today?"
"This is enough," he said. "I don't want to make a habit of raiding the vault."
She nodded once, approving. The associate returned with the iconic blue box, tied with white ribbon. On the way out, a different salesperson caught Ethan's eye and slipped him a card with a too-bright smile. He accepted it out of habit and dropped it in a trash can by the revolving door without breaking stride.
Back in the Wraith, Samantha's phone chimed. "The Plaza confirmed a full buyout of The Palm Court from seven to ten. Private entrance on the side. Chef wants to confirm course count—five or seven?"
"Seven," he said. "But simple. Good ingredients. Don't drown them in tricks."
"Caviar, truffled pasta, dry-aged steak, something citrus to cut, and a ridiculously photogenic dessert." She ticked items with a pen that probably cost more than his old monthly rent. "I added a string quartet—Brahms and Debussy, not funeral marches—and a floral designer who turns spaces into dreams. Oh. And we secured the violinist from last year's Met Young Artists Gala. Not Paganini," she added, deadpan.
He laughed in spite of himself. "I like you, Samantha."
"My job is to make your life look effortless," she said, but there was the tiniest curve at the corner of her mouth. "One more thing: wardrobe. We can swing by a stylist now, or I can have a tux delivered to The Plaza in your sizes."
"Delivered. And a dress for Emily," he added, on impulse. "Something she'd never buy for herself. Tasteful. She hates dresses that scream."
Samantha's fingers flew. "What colors does she wear?"
"She likes navy. Black. Sometimes wine red in winter."
"Noted."
They cut through Midtown traffic with the smooth arrogance of a car that made lanes appear. Street vendors hawked pretzels, a tourist tried to photograph a pigeon, a delivery rider threaded chaos with the faith of a saint. At a light, a little girl in a pink coat pointed at the Wraith and tugged her father's sleeve; Ethan rolled the window down and the girl waved like he was a parade.
He waved back.
The Plaza rose ahead, cream stone and green flags, as self-assured as a palace. Staff were already waiting at the curb—doorman, maître d', a woman in a headset who gave Samantha a nod reserved for people who could sign their name and make improbable things become facts.
"Mr. Walker," the headset woman said, expertly not asking for ID. "We've prepared your entrance through the side corridor, away from the main lobby. The Palm Court is yours until ten. After that, the hotel remains at your disposal for photography."
Inside, chandeliers bloomed overhead like frozen fireworks. The Palm Court's stained-glass ceiling turned the room into daylight, even though evening approached; palms stood at attention in gilded urns; mirrors multiplied the space into infinity.
Right now, it was full of floral scaffolding. A team in black moved like stagehands in a ballet, arching blush roses and white orchids over a pathway, threading tiny lights that would turn the whole thing into starlight. A quartet tuned discreetly in a corner—violin, viola, cello, the first phrases of something French slipping into the air like perfume.
Ethan stood still and let his chest loosen. "This," he said quietly, "is perfect."
Samantha consulted a tablet. "Menu's confirmed. The quartet will start with Debussy and move through a little Brahms and a touch of Gershwin, because New York. I took the liberty of arranging a cake reveal—no sparkler towers, just a clean slice of theater. The dress for Ms. Carter will arrive in forty minutes. Shoes as well. A hair and makeup duo will be in a side suite in case she wants it."
"Thank you," he said. He meant it more than the words carried.
Samantha's gaze shifted, assessing him the way she might a balance sheet. "You keep surprising me."
"How so?"
"Most men, the first thing they want after a windfall is an audience," she said. "A crowd to clap for them. You asked for privacy. And the second thing they want is novelty. You asked for something she'd love, not something that screams 'look at me.' It's… rare."
"Maybe I've had enough of crowds," he said.
She nodded, accepting it without turning it into a compliment.
The Plaza's event manager approached to walk them through the timeline—arrival at 6:55 through the private entrance, quartet to swell as they cross the floral arch, champagne waiting at the table, candles to be lit just as the ceiling's glow mellowed. Ethan checked his phone: a text from Emily, 7:00 works. Where are we going? He typed back: Surprise. Dress code: trust me.
They did a last pass of the room. He tested chairs, rejected one for a microscopic wobble, and watched a staffer swap it out seconds later. He asked the quartet for one song on the nose—"La Vie en Rose," not because it was original, but because some clichés earned their keep. The first violinist smiled, delighted, and ran a phrase as a promise.
"Two more stops," Samantha said as they stepped into the corridor. "Bank and florist, you mentioned."
"Bank first," he said. "I want to wire something to my parents' account. No note. Just room to breathe." He thought of his mom's voice on the phone, of thirty winters of worn coats. "And a florist for the car—nothing overdone. Hand-tied bouquet she can actually hold."
"Peonies are out of season," Samantha mused. "Garden roses then. Ivory and the barest whisper of pink."
"Perfect."
The rest of the afternoon passed in a fast-forward montage that still left space for breath. At the bank, a private banker shook Ethan's hand three times and tried not to look at the number on the screen. The wire to Ohio flew out like a small, quiet miracle. At the florist—a narrow shop that smelled like rain—Ethan watched a woman's hands build a bouquet as if she were arranging weather: roses, ranunculus, a sprig of eucalyptus that made the air taste clean.
Back at The Plaza, a garment bag awaited in the side suite. Inside: a midnight-blue tux that felt like liquid when he slid the jacket on. Across the room, a second bag held a dress the color of champagne poured at golden hour, simple and luminous, with a silk ribbon that would tie like a secret.
He checked his watch. 6:42.
Samantha adjusted his bow tie with the confidence of someone who had done this for men who ruled continents. "You'll meet her at the side entrance. We'll cue the quartet."
"Stay for the start," he said. "If you want."
She considered, then shook her head once. "Not my moment," she said. "I'll be where the strings are—making sure every knot holds."
He laughed softly. "You're terrifying."
"That's why you pay me," she said, and swept away in a current of white flowers and decisions.
Ethan stood alone for a heartbeat in a corridor that smelled faintly of beeswax and lilies. The System pulsed at the edge of his sight—new prompts, new numbers, a little banner that read: Lifestyle Setup: Milestone Achieved. +5 Charm. Hidden Reward Pending.
He ignored it. Or, rather, he let it sit where it belonged: not as the author of this moment, but as its witness.
At 6:56, his phone buzzed. Here. Side entrance. He took the bouquet, felt the flutter in his stomach that reminded him of high school dances and second-hand suits, and started down the hall toward the door that would open on a woman who had believed in him when the world didn't.
Outside, the city carried on—the endless river, the horns, the laughter, the taxis gliding like yellow fish. Inside, a quartet lifted their bows.
The night was ready.