Evan shifts slightly beside me. He doesn’t know why. He just feels the change.
Chuck laughs. “So? Was she any good?”
The room doesn’t stop.
No one gasps.
No one intervenes.
Alex’s voice cuts in sharp. “Shut up, Chuck.”
Too late.
Sunday.
The Vault.
After Saturday.
Before Tuesday.
Before dinner.
Before I let myself believe—quietly, carefully—that I was different.
Something closes in my chest. Not painfully. Completely.
I don’t feel anger.
What I feel is understanding.
He hadn’t asked me to the gala because he was unsure.
He’d asked because it was convenient to leave the option open.
Because Sunday didn’t count.
Because he could choose me after and still believe the choosing mattered more than the timing.
I breathe slowly, grounding myself in my body, the floor beneath my heels, the steady presence of Evan beside me.
Across the room, Derek turns, scanning.
For me.
I step slightly closer to Evan—not clinging, not performative. Just enough to signal continuity. Enough to say I’m not standing here waiting to be claimed.
When Derek’s gaze finds me again, there’s something else there now.
Alarm.
Too late.
I don’t look away because I’m hurt.
I look away because I’m done standing on the wrong side of a line he drew and pretended wasn’t there.
I don’t leave immediately.
