Good.
I wash my hands even though I don’t need to. The water is cool. Grounding. I dry them carefully and toss the towel away.
I don’t linger.
When I step back into the hall, I don’t look for Derek.
I don’t need to.
If he’s coming after me now, it’s because he’s realized he lost control of the narrative—not because he chose honesty when it mattered.
That distinction is everything.
By the time I reach the coat check, my breathing has evened out again. I thank the attendant, slip my coat on, and step outside into the night.
The air is cool. Clean.
I take one full breath.
Then another.
Whatever I felt earlier—hope, warmth, the almost of it—it settles into something quieter now. Not bitterness. Not regret.
Clarity.
He didn’t choose me when choosing would have cost him something.
And I won’t wait around to be chosen after the fact.
I step off the curb and signal for a car.
Behind me, the doors close softly on the gala.
On Derek.
On the version of the story where I stay and let him explain.
Tonight, that version doesn’t get written.
Chapter Twenty-Six
DEREK
I lose sight of her.
Not gradually. Not cleanly.
One second she’s there—moving with that quiet, deliberate grace that used to settle something in my chest—and the next she’s gone, swallowed by the crowd.
I step forward.
Jamie steps into me.
Not gently.
“What are you doing,” I snap, low and urgent. “Move.”
She doesn’t.
