Page 78 of Forty, Flirty & Fired

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PS: Keith is planning something called "Revolutionary Santa." Consider yourself warned.

Great.

Dumpster fire? Meet gasoline.

Because I’m sure nothing can go wrong when I’m planning the biggest tech industry gala of the season while hiding a secret exposé…with my CEO boyfriend starting to look over my shoulder.

Nothing at all.

"The ice sculpture demo just arrived," Lucia announces, dropping a stack of vendor contracts on my desk. "Though Keith is insisting we need a revolutionary version. Something about 'breaking free from frozen corporate constraints.'"

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Four Seasons ballroom, Seattle's heaviest snowfall in years transforms downtown into a winter wonderland. The massive space below is halfway decorated - towering holographic Christmas trees pulse with synchronized LED lights while interactive displays showcase Drake Enterprises' latest innovations. The marriage of tradition and technology should be perfect.

Just like everything else about this gala needs to be.

"The guest list hit four hundred," Lucia continues, scrolling through her tablet. "Every major tech CEO in the Pacific Northwest, plus that reporter from TechCrunch who's been investigating corporate leaks..."

My stomach twists. "Amelia Zegen's coming?"

"Along with half of Silicon Valley. Apparently, everyone wants to see the company that's actually changing tech culture." She eyes my laptop where two documents sit minimized: my latest blog post and the exposé that could destroy everything. "Speaking of change... those compensation numbers in your draft match last week's board meeting exactly."

I quickly close the window. "Just industry research."

"Really? Because?—"

The ballroom doors burst open, revealing Keith in what appears to be a Santa hat modified into a revolutionary beret, complete with LED trim.

"Comrade Gallo! Crisis in the holiday choir! HR rejected our rendition of 'Silent Night (Until We Rise)' and Brad's crying into the poinsettia arrangements! Also, the people demand access to the quarterly bonus spreadsheets for our next performance piece!"

"The people do not need confidential financial data for carol singing," Alex's voice carries from the doorway, making me jump. "Though I'm curious about how you accessed those spreadsheets in the first place."

Dark-haired and serious, he looks polished and gorgeous in a perfectly tailored suit, a light dusting of snow still melting on his shoulders. But there's tension around his eyes that makes my guilt spike.

"The revolution has its methods," Keith declares. "Also, Brad may have left his password on a Post-it again."

"Keith." Alex's CEO voice makes an appearance. "We talked about this. Information security isn't optional, even for the revolution."

"But how can we fight the system without data?" Keith brandishes his tinsel-decorated songbook. "The people's voices must have empirical support!"

"The people's voices can stick to approved metrics," Alex says firmly. "And traditional carols. We have enough concerns about internal leaks without adding musical numbers to the mix."

Keith retreats, but not before starting what sounds suspiciously like "The Twelve Days of Corporate Revolution" ("Five leaked spreadsheets...").

"Your revolutionary is getting creative with his data mining," Alex observes once we're alone. His hand finds the small of my back, but the touch feels weighted now. "Though not as creative as some blog posts I've seen recently."

"Alex—"

"The board's asking questions, Mac." He keeps his voice low, intimate. "About how certain information is finding its way into public discourse. About the level of detail in your posts."

"I thought you supported what I'm doing."

"I do." He turns me to face him. "You know I do. You'rechanging things, making real progress. But these numbers you're posting... they're raising red flags I can't ignore."

The guilt threatens to choke me. If he's this concerned about blog posts, how will he react to the exposé?

"I'll be more careful," I promise, and hate how easily the lie comes.

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