Rowan nods politely, unreadable as always. His date tonight is different, still pretty, still careful, still clearly not permanent. Rowan’s attention doesn’t linger on her. He watches the room like he’s watching exits.
Caleb stands last. No theatrics. No charm. Just a steady presence.
He inclines his head at me. “Mrs. North.”
The title sounds strange from him. Like something he doesn’t believe in. Like he’s saying it because it matters that he does.
I sit, and Julian follows, sitting beside me. And I realize, with a quiet shock, that this feels so different from the last gala. Last time, I felt like I was being evaluated.
Tonight… I feel like I’m being held.
Dinner begins, and there’s a speaker who introduces us to the video montage meant to tug heartstrings, and I feel myself getting quietly angry because suffering shouldn’t be fundraising entertainment, but I also know the cheques written tonight will change someone’s life.
Julian doesn’t drink much. He keeps his glass mostly untouched, his focus moving between conversations and me.
Every time a stranger leans too close, Julian shifts subtly, repositioning his body so I have space. Every time someone asks me a question that feels too personal, Julian answers first, redirecting without making it obvious he’s doing it.
It’s not dominance.
It’s protection.
I’m halfway through my main course when I sense it.
That shift in air.
Graham Whitaker appears at the edge of the table with a bright smile. He looks… effortless.
He's in a dark grey tux this time. That same easy confidence. That same targeted friendliness. His gaze finds mine.
“Lucy.”
Just my name.
Like we’re alone.
I feel my spine straighten instinctively.
Julian’s hand rests on the back of my chair immediately. Not gripping, just there, it's warm and comforting. It's a line drawn quietly behind me.
Graham’s eyes flick to it, and amusement flashes.
Then he looks at Julian and gives the smallest nod.
“North.”
“Whitaker.”
The temperature between them dips.
Graham turns back to me, smile widening. “You look incredible.”
“Thank you,” I say carefully.
“I’ve been trying to reach you,” Graham continues, conversational. “I wanted to follow up on our conversation.”
I blink. “We didn’t have...”
“I wanted to,” he corrects smoothly.
