A flicker of heat crosses her face, brief and honest, before she composes herself. “Thank you.”
I let my eyes move over her once, slowly, not because I want to make her uncomfortable, but because this is part of the evaluation. The room will look. The room will judge. The room will decide whether she belongs beside me.
And the room will bewrongif it thinks she doesn’t.
Her earrings catch the light when she turns her head, sharp little flashes like stars. There’s no necklace. Her back is the statement. The bracelet slips over one sleeve, elegant in a unique kind of way, like something designed specifically for her.
I don’t ask if she likes any of the gifts I sent her.
I already know she’s overwhelmed by them.
I can see it as her fingers curl around her clutch a little too tightly, like she needs something to anchor her.
“Was the ride comfortable?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says, and then, as if forcing herself to add more, “Thank you.”
I nod once. “Good.”
Her eyes flick to the ballroom. The movement. The people.
This is the moment she could retreat.
This is the moment she could remember my dinner offer and the way she walked out into the cold and decided she would never be someone’s transaction.
This is the moment she could decide tonight is too much.
Instead, she squares her shoulders, and steps closer, and I feel it, static electricity, subtle but undeniable, the kind that builds before a storm.
I offer her my arm; she hesitates for half a second, then her hand slides into the crook of my elbow as if it belongs there.
My body reacts, and yet somehow, I keep my face still.
We step forward together.
The press line isn’t officially a press line; this is a charity, after all, but it functions like one. Phones, cameras, names called like invitations.
I guide Lucy with a hand at the small of her back, not possessive, practical. Protective.
That’s what I tell myself.
Not that I need contact.
Not that letting go would feel like stepping into cold water.
Flashes pop.
Questions come.
“How did you two meet?”
Lucy tenses slightly beside me.
I answer without looking at the camera. “Through work.”
Technically true.
“And when did it become more than that?”
