Jace.
He’s at her side in a dark suit, broad shoulders, calm expression, one hand resting lightly at the small of her back as he guides her through the crowd. Not possessive or performative. Just… steady. Like being close to her is natural. Like this is how it should have always been
My throat tightens.
He looks good with her.
The thought lands hard, not because it surprises me, but because I’ve been choosing not to look at it too closely.
Sarah pauses when someone approaches them, and Jace turns his head, a polite smile already in place as he greets whoever it is. He’s perfect at this too. Of course he is. He’s Coach Prescott. He knows the donors. He knows how to be the man people want him to be.
And Sarah stands there beside him like she fits.
Like she belongs there.
Like she belongs with him.
My hands go cold.
Not because it surprises me.
Because this is how they were always meant to look.
I don’t even realize I’ve stopped walking until my mother’s grip tightens.
“Don’t stare,” she hisses under her breath, smiling brightly at a man who just walked up. “You’ll embarrass me.”
I blink hard and force my eyes away.
The man introduces himself and my mother does her whole routine, talking about giving, about legacy, about how much the university means to ‘ourfamily.’ My father nods at the appropriate moments, checking his watch like he’s counting down until he can escape.
I stand there and nod too, my brain splitting in half.
Half of me is present, performing.
The other half is locked on Sarah and Jace, watching the way she tilts her head to listen, the way his gaze drops briefly to her mouth and then snaps away like he catches himself.
There’s a tension there. Not loud or obvious. But something I know is caused by me. My pulse picks up, sharp and fast, and I know I need air.
I slip my arm free from my mother’s and take a small step back. “I’m going to find the restroom.”
My mother doesn’t turn her head. She keeps smiling at the man in front of her. “Don’t take long.”
My father doesn’t look at me.
I walk away with my spine straight and my face neutral, like I’m not falling apart under the surface.
The hallway outside the ballroom is quieter, carpeted, dimmer. The noise of the gala muffles behind heavy doors. I take one deep breath, then another, and it still doesn’t feel like enough.
I move toward the restrooms, but I don’t go inside. I stop in the small foyer near the coat check, hands braced on the edge of a table, staring at a framed photo of the campus.
The noise from the ballroom hums behind me, muted but relentless. Laughter. Glasses clinking. People who believe tonight is exactly what it’s supposed to be.
My chest tightens, sharp and sudden. Not nerves. Not guilt. The realization that if I stay here one more minute pretending I can get through this, I’m going to break in a way I won’t be able to hide.
I can’t do this.
I pull my phone out of my clutch, fingers steady now in a way they haven’t been all night.
