Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
AUDRA
I excuse myself as soon as I’m inside.
Not because anything is wrong.
Because this is the moment I always take. Besides, Evan is immediately pulled into conversation—greeted by more people than I can keep track of—so I have time. Enough to primp without it looking like retreat.
The ladies’ room is quiet, insulated from the low roar of voices and clinking glasses. Marble counters. Warm light. Mirrors designed to reassure more than reflect.
I step to the sink and set my clutch beside it.
For a moment, I just look.
Not critically.
Not emotionally.
Assessing.
My hair is still pinned neatly, smooth at the crown, nothing loose that might read careless. Makeup intact—balanced, restrained. The diamonds at my ears and throat catch the light softly, a gift inherited from my mother. I like bringing her with me when I can.
My designer dress fits cleanly. No pulling. No obvious seams. Navy—my favorite color. Understated. Correct.
I don’t want to look beautiful.
I want to look like I belong.
I straighten slightly, watching the shift register in the mirror. Shoulders back. Chin level. The version of myself I learned to inhabit young—quietly competent, unremarkable in the safest way.
I smooth the fabric at my waist, not because it needs it, but because the motion grounds me.
You’re fine, I tell myself.
I study my reflection again, closer this time.
No nerves in my face. No eagerness. No tells.
Just composure.
I don’t want anyone to look at me and wonder why I’m here.
I want them to assume I always have been.
The door opens behind me. Another woman enters, glances once, then moves on without interest.
Good.
I pick up my clutch and exhale slowly.
I fit.
That’s enough.
I turn toward the door, ready now to rejoin the noise, the expectations, the evening as it’s meant to unfold.
I have no idea yet how carefully I’ll need that composure.
Evan and I walk the room together.
Not arm in arm. Not distant either. Just close enough to read as intentional. I can feel his gratitude in the way he checks in with me before we approach anyone new, the way he doesn’t rush ahead. I’m glad he isn’t alone tonight. That’s all this is.
We stop when we’re stopped. Smile when it’s required. Names blur past me—donors, board members, people whose influence matters more than their personalities. I listen more than I speak. I always do. It gives me time to understand the shape of a room like this.
Who belongs.
Who performs belonging.
Who expects it.
I adjust without thinking. I’ve been doing that my whole life.
At some point—I couldn’t tell you when—I feel it.
Not a sound.
Not movement.
Attention.
I look up.
Derek is across the room.
He’s mid-conversation, body angled toward a small group, posture easy in that way that makes authority look effortless. Dark suit. Familiar stance. For one stupid second, warmth flickers in my chest.
Then his gaze locks on me.
And it sharpens.
He isn’t surprised. He’s angry. His jaw sets, his attention narrowing until it feels like a line drawn straight through the space between us.
Jealousy.
The audacity of it almost makes me laugh.
As if he has any right.
I don’t look away immediately. I let myself understand it.
This isn’t about me.
It’s about the fact that I’m here.
With someone else.
Without him.
He drew the line himself.
Let me cross it.
Then pushed me back onto my side.
And now he’s standing there, looking at me like I’ve done something wrong by existing outside of him.
I turn slightly toward Evan when he says something to me, nodding, smiling faintly. I don’t lean into him. I don’t pull away either. I don’t perform anything.
I just continue.
When I glance back, Derek is still watching. His attention is fractured now, no longer fully with the people around him. He looks like a man recalculating something he thought he had already controlled.
The irony settles cold and clean in my chest.
You don’t get to be angry, I think. You already chose distance.
We move on.
Another conversation. Another pause. Another exchange that requires just enough attention to feel real. The rhythm of the room starts to smooth me out again.
I almost forget he’s here.
Almost.
Then laughter cuts through the air nearby—too loud, too loose.
“Pierce! Jesus, man.”
My stomach drops—not sharply, not dramatically. Just all at once.
“That you I saw at The Vault on Sunday?” the man says. “Thought so. Hell of a night to be out, huh?”
I turn my head.
Chuck. Red-faced. Tuxedo like a costume. A drink in his hand and no awareness in his voice.
“And who was that hot chick hanging all over you?” he continues. “She was into it. You disappeared early—figured you took her home.”
The words feel obscene in their carelessness.
Evan shifts slightly beside me. He doesn’t know why. He just feels the change.
Chuck laughs. “So? Was she any good?”
The room doesn’t stop.
No one gasps.
No one intervenes.
Alex’s voice cuts in sharp. “Shut up, Chuck.”
Too late.
Sunday.
The Vault.
After Saturday.
Before Tuesday.
Before dinner.
Before I let myself believe—quietly, carefully—that I was different.
Something closes in my chest. Not painfully. Completely.
I don’t feel anger.
What I feel is understanding.
He hadn’t asked me to the gala because he was unsure.
He’d asked because it was convenient to leave the option open.
Because Sunday didn’t count.
Because he could choose me after and still believe the choosing mattered more than the timing.
I breathe slowly, grounding myself in my body, the floor beneath my heels, the steady presence of Evan beside me.
Across the room, Derek turns, scanning.
For me.
I step slightly closer to Evan—not clinging, not performative. Just enough to signal continuity. Enough to say I’m not standing here waiting to be claimed.
When Derek’s gaze finds me again, there’s something else there now.
Alarm.
Too late.
I don’t look away because I’m hurt.
I look away because I’m done standing on the wrong side of a line he drew and pretended wasn’t there.
I don’t leave immediately.
I finish the conversation I’m in. I nod at the right places. I respond when spoken to. I let the moment pass without making myself the disruption.
It’s only when I feel steady again—when my pulse has slowed back to something manageable—that I excuse myself.
“Please tell her I’m so sorry I missed her,” I say to Evan quietly. “I’ll text her later.”
He frowns, already concerned. “You okay?”
“Yes,” I say. And I mean it in the way that matters. “I just need some air.”
I step away before he can insist on walking me.
As I turn, I see Jamie.
She’s across the room, posture rigid in a way that has nothing to do with professionalism. Her gaze flicks from Derek to me and sharpens instantly. She doesn’t hesitate.
She moves.
Derek is already angling toward me, his attention locked now, intent unmistakable. Whatever Chuck said has landed. Whatever he’s realized has arrived too late, but it’s arrived.
Jamie gets there first.
She steps directly into his path, hand landing lightly but decisively on his forearm. Not clinging. Not aggressive.
Blocking.
“Not now,” she says quietly.
I don’t hear the words, but I recognize the posture. The way she positions herself just enough to slow him without causing a scene.
Derek says something—short, urgent. His gaze darts past her to find me again.
Jamie doesn’t move.
She shakes her head once. Subtle. Final.
Whatever passes between them lasts only seconds, but I understand it instinctively.
She’s choosing.
Not sides.
Timing.
I don’t wait to see how he reacts.
I turn away.
The hallway toward the exit feels longer than it did earlier. The sounds of the gala soften behind me, replaced by the quiet echo of my heels on polished floor.
This time, when I enter the ladies’ room, I don’t stop at the mirror.
I don’t assess.
I don’t primp.
I move straight to the counter and pick up my clutch where I left it earlier.
My reflection catches me anyway—just a glimpse in the glass. Still composed. Still intact.
Good.
I wash my hands even though I don’t need to. The water is cool. Grounding. I dry them carefully and toss the towel away.
I don’t linger.
When I step back into the hall, I don’t look for Derek.
I don’t need to.
If he’s coming after me now, it’s because he’s realized he lost control of the narrative—not because he chose honesty when it mattered.
That distinction is everything.
By the time I reach the coat check, my breathing has evened out again. I thank the attendant, slip my coat on, and step outside into the night.
The air is cool. Clean.
I take one full breath.
Then another.
Whatever I felt earlier—hope, warmth, the almost of it—it settles into something quieter now. Not bitterness. Not regret.
Clarity.
He didn’t choose me when choosing would have cost him something.
And I won’t wait around to be chosen after the fact.
I step off the curb and signal for a car.
Behind me, the doors close softly on the gala.
On Derek.
On the version of the story where I stay and let him explain.
Tonight, that version doesn’t get written.