PART 2: My Brother Hid Me at the Children’s Table—Then the CEO He Wanted to Impress Sat Beside Me

Then he turned to me and said, with the same calm warmth I had heard on dozens of late-night calls, “Jenna, I was hoping I’d find you before dinner. I wanted to thank you in person.”

The ballroom went so quiet I could hear a fork slip from someone’s plate.

Across the room, my brother Nicholas stood frozen beside the champagne tower, one hand still half-raised in greeting. His new bride, Allison, looked between him and me with confused curiosity. My mother, who had been busy introducing herself to the wealthier relatives on Allison’s side, turned around so fast her pearl earrings swung against her neck.

I felt every stare.

Every question.

Every silent calculation.

For one awful second, I was that little girl again, standing in the school hallway while Nicholas explained to his friends that I was “weird, but mostly harmless.” I was sixteen again, showing my parents the story I had won a regional prize for, only for Nicholas to walk in with a second-place debate trophy and become the evening’s celebration.

But then Milo pushed a purple crayon toward Emmett.

“You need wings,” he said. “Dragons always need wings.”

Emmett accepted the crayon. “Then wings it is.”

Something in me loosened.

I looked at Nicholas and saw panic rising behind his eyes. He mouthed my name, as if I had done something wrong by being found. I could almost hear his voice: Don’t make this awkward. Don’t embarrass me. Don’t say too much.

For once, I looked away first.

“Thank you for coming over,” I said to Emmett.

“I meant what I said.” He began sketching a lopsided dragon wing on the paper tablecloth. “That Pittsburgh keynote has already opened three conversations we’ve been trying to start for months.”

I smiled faintly. “I’m glad it landed well.”

“It did more than land.” His voice softened. “You found the emotional center. I’ve given hundreds of speeches. That was the first one where I felt like the room understood why the work mattered.”

A little girl across the table, Ella, looked up from her chicken nuggets.

“Are you famous?”

Emmett considered that. “Only in very boring rooms.”

She nodded, satisfied, and returned to dipping nuggets into ketchup.

A few people nearby laughed politely, but no one fully relaxed. They were still watching us, waiting for the explanation that would make the scene make sense.

Nicholas finally started toward us.

I knew that walk. He had used it when we were children and I accidentally said something too honest in front of company. He had used it in college when I told his girlfriend he had borrowed money from me and never paid it back. It was the walk of a man preparing to reframe reality before anyone else could understand it.

“Mr. Stewart,” he said brightly when he reached the table. “I’m so glad you made it. We were just about to seat you at Table One.”

Emmett looked up from his dragon.

“That’s kind, Nicholas, but I’m comfortable here.”

Nicholas laughed, too quickly. “Of course. Of course. Jenna can be very entertaining.”

The words were smooth. Light. Almost affectionate.

Almost.

Emmett’s hand paused over the crayon.

“She’s more than entertaining,” he said.

Nicholas’s smile stiffened. “Naturally. I just mean—”