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The laptop screen finally went black, signaling the end of the two-hour video conference with the UNICEF global outreach directors.
In the luxurious penthouse suite of The Newt hotel, Evans let out a long, dramatic groan that sounded like a dying walrus.
He dragged his hands down his face, looking completely drained.
Orchestrating a global, surprise charity campaign in a matter of months had taken a severe toll on his already fragile, expectant-father nervous system.
"I am dead," Evans announced to the ceiling, standing up on wobbly legs. "My brain is officially slime. The logistics team is handling the book distribution, the PR team is crying tears of joy, and I am going to sleep. I don't care if the hotel catches fire, Michael. Do not wake me up. Do whatever you want."
With that, Evans trudged toward the master bedroom like a zombie and slammed the door shut.
Michael sat alone in the quiet suite.
For a moment, he just stared at the blank laptop screen. He had done it. The campaign was live, and the initial numbers the directors had shown him were already astronomical.
But as the adrenaline of the business meeting faded, a different, much more terrifying kind of nervous energy took its place.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket.
He stared at the contact name, Emma, for a solid two minutes.
His thumb hovered over the call button.
The brilliant author who had just flawlessly negotiated a global charity deal was suddenly terrified of a phone screen.
"Just press call, you coward," his inner voice snapped.
He pressed it.
He lifted the phone to his ear, his heart hammering against his ribs.
One ring. Two rings. Three rings.
"Hello?" a soft, breathless voice answered.
Michael swallowed hard. "Hi. Emma. It's Michael."
"I know," Emma's voice smiled through the speaker.
He could hear the faint, ambient noise of the production set in the background. "I saved your number, remember? Both of us possessing the rarest phone on earth and all."
Michael let out a shaky breath, a small smile breaking across his face. "Right. Right, of course. Listen, I... are you busy right now?"
"Just finished blocking a scene," Emma replied happily. "I'm heading back to my trailer to change. Why? Are you finally coming to the set?"
"Actually," Michael started, his usually smooth, charismatic voice suddenly stumbling over the words. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling his face heat up.
"I was wondering... I checked the production schedule. You don't have any scenes after one o'clock today, right?"
"No, I don't," Emma said, her voice dropping slightly, laced with sudden, excitement.
"Well, I was thinking," Michael forced the words out. "Since neither of us is busy... would you maybe want to... get some lunch? With me? Outside of the set?"
There was a pause on the other end of the line.
For two agonizing seconds, Michael was convinced she was going to politely decline.
Then, a soft, teasing giggle floated through the speaker.
Emma, who had spent the last three days texting him and realizing that beneath the all the extraordinary author, he was just a regular, funny guy, felt her own nerves melt away into pure affection.
"Wow," Emma teased, her tone playful and entirely comfortable. "The great Michael Owen, mastermind behind the century's biggest literary charity event, gets nervous asking a girl to lunch? I thought you glided everywhere with confidence?"
Michael let out a breathless, relieved laugh, leaning his head back against the leather chair.
"Only when I'm walking. On the phone, I am apparently a total disaster. So... is that a yes?"
"Yes, Michael," Emma said, and he could practically hear the beaming smile and a blush on her face. "I would gladly go on a lunch date with you."
"Great," Michael breathed out. "I'll have a car pick you up at the edge of the lot at one."
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Meanwhile, four thousand miles away, the atmosphere was completely devoid of any warmth or joy.
In a humid, heavily cluttered living room in a modest house somewhere in Florida, the television was blaring.
On the screen, Michael's UNICEF campaign video was playing on a loop from a news broadcast.
The banner at the bottom of the screen read: LITERARY PRODIGY SPARKS MILLIONS IN GLOBAL DONATIONS.
Sitting on a worn-out recliner, a middle-aged man with a receding hairline aggressively popped the top off a cheap beer.
He took a swig, his eyes locked on the screen, burning with deep, bitter resentment.
Next to him on the floral sofa sat a middle-aged woman. Her face was pulled into a tight, permanent scowl, the lines around her mouth deepening as she watched Michael in his expensive attire talk about giving away vast fortunes to charity.
"Damn it," the man cursed loudly, crushing the empty beer can in his fist and throwing it onto the coffee table.
He pointed a stained finger at the television. "Look at him. Sitting there like he's the king of the world, throwing away millions of dollars to kids in Africa! We should have forced Janet to let us keep him when we had the chance. If we had custody of the boy, we'd be the ones managing that money. We'd be filthy rich right now!"
The middle-aged woman scoffed, a harsh, ugly sound that scraped the back of her throat.
She leaned forward, her eyes glittering with pure venom.
"Force Janet?" the woman spat, her voice dripping with absolute disgust. "That pathetic, sniveling weakling would have handed him over if you had just pushed hard enough! But no, you wanted to play the understanding uncle."
She glared at the screen, staring at Michael's face.
"I always knew my idiot brother was a useless burden," she hissed, her face contorting with malice. "He spent his entire miserable life achieving absolutely nothing, and then he has the nerve to die and leave behind a goldmine. And who gets it? Janet. A manipulative, opportunistic tramp who had to marry a n**** for some shelter before the brat started typing!"
She stood up, pacing the cramped living room, working herself into a furious rant.
"She acted like she was so high and mighty, refusing our 'help' after the funeral," the woman sneered, crossing her arms tightly.
"She's nothing but a leech! She probably saw the dollar signs on that kid the moment he learned how to read. My brother was a fool for marrying her, and he was an even bigger fool for dying before we could get a piece of that talent! Now that miserable woman is probably sitting in a mansion somewhere, laughing at us, while that ungrateful little bastard gives our rightful family money away to strangers!"
The man grabbed another beer from the cooler beside his chair. "Well," he grumbled darkly, "he's still family, isn't he? Maybe it's time we remind him of that."
The woman stopped pacing.
A slow, calculating, and deeply sinister smile crept onto her face as she looked back at the television screen.
"You're absolutely right," she whispered. "He's just a boy. And family... family always comes first to collect."