Page 127 of Princess Avenged

Shana puts her hands on her ample hips. “With the amount he’s offered to donate, I’d agree to meet him on the moon.” She forces her notebook and planner into the vegan-leather backpack she’s already stuffed full of pamphlets, financial statements, and other documents about Sanctuary House. Then as if that weren’t enough, she adds her obsolete iPhone and, for some strange reason, a full-sized stapler.

I open my mouth to ask her why she needs a stapler, then snap it back shut. Shana’s eccentric, but she’s still my boss.

“Have you got the financial records?” she asks me.

“Yup.” I pat my leather tote bag.

The deep brown skin on her forehead wrinkles into a frown as she looks at my tote. “Are you sure? I’ll bring my financial file.”

She reaches into a filing cabinet and pulls out an overstuffed manila folder that gives way and spills papers onto the floor. “Crap.”

“I’ll get them.” I crouch to gather her papers, coffee stained and covered in doodles, and then set them back on her desk. That’s all normal, but today is the first time I’ve seen Shana nervous.

“No need to bring your file.” I smile as we stand. Hoping to reassure her, I pat the side of my tote again. “I’ve got hard copies of the last two years’ annual reports, ten years of our financial records on my laptop, and I can e-mail him anything else he needs. Plus, I’ve got a spare thumb drive if he wants to take digital copies right away.” I don’t even mention the many other options better than her massive, disorganized folder.

Shana eyes me with trepidation, then closes her office door to give us some privacy. “Ember, I know you understand the severity of our financial situation.”

I nod. Without new funding, the not-for-profit we both work for might have to fold.

“How much is he donating?” I ask.

“If he makes the donation…a lot. It all hinges on this meeting.” Closing her eyes, Shana draws a long breath, her equivalent of a prayer.

“Wow.” My gut tightens as the stakes sink in.

“Let’s just say,” Shana continues, “if he donates even half the amount he dangled, we’ll have enough to cover our operating budget for at least two decades, plus expand our service offering to serve more at risk youth.”

I mentally calculate the ballpark number, based on twenty times our operating budget. The number of zeros turns me light headed. “All that from a single donor?” This man could definitely save us.

She nods.

“Is he a billionaire?”

“Yup. And one with a reputation.”

“What kind?” My teeth scrape my lower lip.

“Tough. Difficult. Abrupt. Plus, he’s very picky about choosing charities. We’ve got to handle this just right.” She glances at her watch. “Ack! We’ve got to run. The car he’s sending might already be waiting.”

My already racing nerves go into hyper drive. It’s only 4:00 pm, but it’s fall, the days are getting shorter, and I don’t like to be anyplace in the afternoon where I can’t be sure I’ll be home before dark. “How far are we going?”

“He didn’t say.” She bustles out of her office, and I race to keep up as she crosses the small cluttered area that houses the desks of the Sanctuary House staff—all the staff except me, that is. I work from home most days—another way to make sure I never have to be out at night. I follow her down the four flights of stairs to the street.

I glance at my watch. “How long will the meeting take?”

She stops on the last flight of stairs, halting so suddenly I nearly smash into her, and then she turns, her impatience as clear as glass. “Ember, I let you work from home and you’ve done a great job—way better than our last accountant.” Her large eyes roll as she shakes her head. “I don’t think it’s too much to ask you to go to one offsite meeting with a donor. Especially one so important.”

“No, it’s not, but I…” I close my eyes, wishing I could get past my irrational fear of the dark.

She squeezes my arm, and I open my eyes to find hers full of empathetic kindness. “Don’t you worry, lamby, we’ll get you home before nightfall.”

Her words are kind—both in meaning and delivery—but I can’t help but feel foolish. I’m twenty-five years old and I’m still afraid of the dark.

Ember

Shana takes a long deep breath and shoots me a smile. We’re standing in front of a metal door just inside a narrow alley behind a center city office building. Above us, camera lenses dip to take obvious note of our presence.

“Are you sure this is the place?” I ask her. The alley is clean, pristine really, but this is definitely the back of this building—the opposite of inviting. Super sketchy.

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