I finish the conversation I’m in. I nod at the right places. I respond when spoken to. I let the moment pass without making myself the disruption.
It’s only when I feel steady again—when my pulse has slowed back to something manageable—that I excuse myself.
“Please tell her I’m so sorry I missed her,” I say to Evan quietly. “I’ll text her later.”
He frowns, already concerned. “You okay?”
“Yes,” I say. And I mean it in the way that matters. “I just need some air.”
I step away before he can insist on walking me.
As I turn, I see Jamie.
She’s across the room, posture rigid in a way that has nothing to do with professionalism. Her gaze flicks from Derek to me and sharpens instantly. She doesn’t hesitate.
She moves.
Derek is already angling toward me, his attention locked now, intent unmistakable. Whatever Chuck said has landed. Whatever he’s realized has arrived too late, but it’s arrived.
Jamie gets there first.
She steps directly into his path, hand landing lightly but decisively on his forearm. Not clinging. Not aggressive.
Blocking.
“Not now,” she says quietly.
I don’t hear the words, but I recognize the posture. The way she positions herself just enough to slow him without causing a scene.
Derek says something—short, urgent. His gaze darts past her to find me again.
Jamie doesn’t move.
She shakes her head once. Subtle. Final.
Whatever passes between them lasts only seconds, but I understand it instinctively.
She’s choosing.
Not sides.
Timing.
I don’t wait to see how he reacts.
I turn away.
The hallway toward the exit feels longer than it did earlier. The sounds of the gala soften behind me, replaced by the quiet echo of my heels on polished floor.
This time, when I enter the ladies’ room, I don’t stop at the mirror.
I don’t assess.
I don’t primp.
I move straight to the counter and pick up my clutch where I left it earlier.
My reflection catches me anyway—just a glimpse in the glass. Still composed. Still intact.
