Chapter 50
Chapter fifty
Sam
Tom's standing near the far wall, and the room narrows to just him.
Voices layer around me—someone laughing near the wine table, heels clicking on concrete—but my eyes track him through the shifting bodies. Navy suit, white shirt open at the collar, hands in his pockets like he's trying not to reach for his camera.
He sees me at the same second.
His posture changes. Shoulders drop half an inch, jaw releases, and he starts moving through the crowd like there's a clear path even though there isn't.
I step forward and a woman in a gray blazer shifts left without looking. Someone else moves their wine glass out of the way. The hum of fifty people packed into a gallery meant for thirty builds around us but I don't hear words, just the low constant noise.
We meet near the center of the room.
Tom stops close. His hand finds mine, fingers lacing with mine.
"How are you holding up?" he asks quietly.
His thumb brushes my knuckles, then stills.
I open my mouth to answer, but a hand touches my elbow.
"Ms. Morgan?" A man in his sixties, salt-and-pepper beard, tortoiseshell glasses. "I had a question about the connectivity framework."
Tom's fingers slip from mine immediately, giving me space.
I glance at him once more. He nods toward the boards.
I turn and let the man guide me back toward the display wall.
The boards are lit from above with soft halogen spots. My design look sharp—clean lines, the Harbor District waterfront glowing at dusk.
The man with the tortoiseshell glasses leans closer to the northwest corner detail.
“You’ve pushed the cars out to the perimeter,” he says. “And pulled people toward the waterfront.”
I nod. “The site works better that way.”
He gestures to the rendering. “But that’s a financial gamble in a district built on retail.”
I step closer to the board.
“When people slow down, they stay longer,” I say. “The cafés fill. The shops stay open later. The neighborhood becomes somewhere people spend time instead of somewhere they pass through.”
He studies the drawing another moment.
“That’s interesting.”
Someone beside him murmurs agreement.
Tom's standing three feet to my left, outside the conversation, watching.
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 being on for 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."
"Orbiting," he corrects. His mouth curves just slightly. "There's a difference."
I laugh, quiet enough that it doesn't carry. "What's the difference?"
"Hovering implies you need help." He shifts his weight, shoulder brushing the wall next to mine. "Orbiting just means I'm staying close."
His voice is calm, but there's something underneath it. Tension.
I study his profile. The line of his jaw is tight. His hands slide back into his pockets.
"You okay?" I ask.
He turns his head and meets my eyes.
For two seconds, he doesn't answer.
Then he nods. "Yeah. I'm good."
I hear something in that pause, but I let it go.
Across the room, someone's approaching again—a younger woman with a notebook, probably a student or a journalist.
Tom sees her at the same time I do.
Before I can step forward, he touches my wrist.
"Would you mind taking a quick walk with me?" he asks.