I smooth the fabric at my waist, not because it needs it, but because the motion grounds me.
You’re fine, I tell myself.
I study my reflection again, closer this time.
No nerves in my face. No eagerness. No tells.
Just composure.
I don’t want anyone to look at me and wonder why I’m here.
I want them to assume I always have been.
The door opens behind me. Another woman enters, glances once, then moves on without interest.
Good.
I pick up my clutch and exhale slowly.
I fit.
That’s enough.
I turn toward the door, ready now to rejoin the noise, the expectations, the evening as it’s meant to unfold.
I have no idea yet how carefully I’ll need that composure.
Evan and I walk the room together.
Not arm in arm. Not distant either. Just close enough to read as intentional. I can feel his gratitude in the way he checks in with me before we approach anyone new, the way he doesn’t rush ahead. I’m glad he isn’t alone tonight. That’s all this is.
We stop when we’re stopped. Smile when it’s required. Names blur past me—donors, board members, people whose influence matters more than their personalities. I listen more than I speak. I always do. It gives me time to understand the shape of a room like this.
Who belongs.
Who performs belonging.
Who expects it.
I adjust without thinking. I’ve been doing that my whole life.
At some point—I couldn’t tell you when—I feel it.
Not a sound.
Not movement.
Attention.
I look up.
Derek is across the room.
He’s mid-conversation, body angled toward a small group, posture easy in that way that makes authority look effortless. Dark suit. Familiar stance. For one stupid second, warmth flickers in my chest.
Then his gaze locks on me.
And it sharpens.
