Chapter 5 - THE COMPASS POINTS HOME
By eight o'clock, the Windsor Estate gala was operating with a precision and elegance that Chicago society had never witnessed before.
The string quartet played without a single acoustic glitch. The lighting cast a warm, flattering glow across the cream roses and pale green hydrangeas. The donors were mingling happily, and the whispers about Bianca Sutton’s sudden, disgraceful exit had already been replaced by eager murmurs of praise for the new director of the foundation, Wren Holloway.
From the quiet terrace overlooking the sweeping lawns and the sparkling fountain, the night air was cool and crisp.
Dominic stood leaning against the stone balustrade, holding a glass of scotch in one hand while his thumb idly traced the worn leather of the brass compass resting on the ledge between them.
Wren stood beside him, resting her elbows on the stone, looking out over the illuminated gardens. The heavy binder was sitting on a nearby table, completely untouched for the last two hours.
“You know,” Wren said quietly, breaking the silence, “my grandfather always said that a compass doesn't tell you where the obstacles are. It only tells you where true north is.”
Dominic turned his head, looking at her with a gentle, appreciative smile that completely transformed the hard lines of his face. “And what is your true north, Wren?”
She looked down at the compass, then met his dark, steady gaze.
“For a long time, I thought it was just keeping everyone else happy, staying invisible so nobody would judge the space I took up,” she said honestly. “Keeping the peace. Doing the work while someone else took the bow.”
“And now?” Dominic asked softly.
Wren smiled—a real, bright, unreserved smile that reached her eyes.
“Now, I think my grandfather was teaching me something else,” she said, her voice steady and sure. “He was teaching me that you don't need permission from people who don't know how to read a map to know your own worth.”
Dominic reached out, picking up the brass compass. He didn't put it back in his pocket. Instead, he gently placed it into Wren’s open palm, closing her fingers around the warm metal and worn leather.
“Keep it,” Dominic said. “It belongs to you. And if anyone ever tries to tell you that you take up too much space in this city... you let me know. We’ll rewrite their coordinates.”
May you like
Wren looked down at the compass in her hand, feeling its familiar, comforting weight.
For the first time in her life, she didn't feel like she was hiding in the background. The storm had cleared, the path was open, and the needle pointed straight ahead.
