He doesn't say anything. Just extends his hand with a glass of water.
I take it without breaking eye contact with the critic. My fingers brush Tom's palm and I register the brief warmth before he steps back again.
The man with the glasses asks another question about phasing and I answer while taking a sip.
Tom orbits.
A woman in a charcoal dress pulls me gently toward the second board, asking about material transparency. I follow her, still holding the water glass Tom gave me.
The crowd shifts like a slow current.
I'm midway through explaining the glazing system when I hear Priya's voice cutting through the low hum.
"We're her mentors," she's saying to someone near the wine table, loud enough to carry. "Technically speaking."
I turn and spot them moving through the crowd—Priya in a navy jumpsuit, Nadia in black with her hair pulled back, Liv in charcoal gray that matches the gallery walls.
Nadia sees me first and grins.
They weave through bodies and converge near the third board.
"You did this," Liv says quietly, gesturing at the display. Her voice cracks just slightly on the last word.
"You pushed me to submit," I say.
Priya loops her arm through mine. "And you're the one who actually built the thing."
Nadia's eyes track past me and land on Tom, who's standing near the edge of the group with his hands back in his pockets.
"He looks good in a suit," Nadia says, not bothering to lower her voice. "Does he have any brothers?"
"Nadia," I say, but I'm smiling.
Tom hears her. His mouth twitches but he doesn't respond, just shifts his weight and lets the comment roll off.
Through the gap in the crowd, I catch movement near the entrance.
Wren.
She's in black trousers and a fitted jacket, her tattoos just visible at the cuffs when she reaches up to adjust her hair. She scans the room, finds me, and lifts her hand in a small wave.
I wave back.
The Boss Babes drift slightly, pulled into conversation with someone else, and the space around me opens up again.
I step toward the side of the gallery where the crowd thins.
My ribs feel tight—not anxiety, just the sustained adrenaline of beingonfor ninety minutes straight. I press my back against the cool wall and take a slow breath.
Tom appears beside me without announcing himself.
He's not looking at me. He's scanning the room cataloging the light, the angles, the way bodies cluster near the wine table and thin out near the exits.
"You're doing great," he says.
It's the first full sentence he's said to me since we met in the middle of the room.
I glance at him. "You've been hovering."
