10. Theo #2
"Showtime," Azaria murmurs, her hand finding mine briefly. "Remember, we're a united front. Whatever happens in there, we present as a team."
"Azaria."
She looks at me, eyebrow raised.
"You really do look beautiful tonight."
Her smile softens, losing its calculated edge for just a moment. "Thank you. Now let's go convince New York society that I'm worth redemption."
Within minutes of our entrance, I realize I've underestimated something fundamental about Azaria.
"Mrs. Whitmore, you look absolutely radiant," she says to a silver-haired woman dripping in diamonds. "That necklace is stunning—Van Cleef?"
"Cartier, actually. From the estate collection."
"Even better. The craftsmanship on those vintage pieces is unmatched. My grandmother had a similar design, though not nearly as elegant as yours."
Mrs. Whitmore practically glows under the attention, and I watch Azaria work her magic—genuine interest mixed with perfectly calibrated compliments that never feel forced or empty.
A server approaches with champagne, and Azaria catches his eye.
"Thank you, Matthew," she says, reading his name tag. "Long shift tonight?"
"Just started actually, miss. These events usually run pretty late."
"Well, you're doing fantastic. The presentation is beautiful." She palms something into his hand as she takes her glass. "Make sure you stay hydrated."
Matthew beams and continues on his rounds. I catch the brief flash of folded bills disappearing into his pocket.
"You tip the servers at charity events?"
"They work harder than anyone else here and get paid the least. Besides, good service should be rewarded." She sips her champagne, scanning the room. "Oh, look—Senator Crawford's wife is wearing that hideous fascinator again. Someone should stage an intervention."
Before I can respond, she's already moving toward the next group, and I find myself following in her wake, watching her transform each interaction into something memorable.
She asks the right questions, remembers personal details that make people feel seen, and somehow manages to be both glamorous and approachable.
"Young lady, would you do an old man the honor?"
I turn to see Harold Nissan, seventy-three years old and one of the museum's biggest benefactors, extending his hand to Azaria. The orchestra has started playing something slow and elegant.
"Mr. Nissan, I would be delighted."
She glides onto the dance floor with him, and I watch as she makes him feel like the most important person in the room.
She laughs at something he says, her head tilted back, completely genuine.
Other couples join them, but somehow Azaria and her elderly partner become the center of attention without trying.
This is her element. Not the chaos I expected, but this—the performance, the connection, the way she makes everyone around her feel like they're part of something special.
When the song ends, she curtseys playfully, and Mr. Nissan kisses her hand with courtly flourish. The watching crowd applauds, charmed.
She returns to my side, slightly breathless, her cheeks flushed with genuine enjoyment.
"Having fun yet?" she asks.
"Yeah," I hear myself say. "I am."
"Your turn," Azaria says, grabbing my hand as the orchestra strikes up something with actual rhythm. "Don't even think about refusing."
"I don't really?—"
"Dance? Please. You're a professional athlete. If you can coordinate a power play, you can handle a foxtrot."
She pulls me onto the floor before I can protest further, and suddenly I'm moving with her to music that's far more upbeat than the sedate waltzes from earlier. Her hand settles on my shoulder, mine finds her waist, and we fall into step like we've done this a thousand times before.
"See? Natural athlete," she says, spinning under my arm with practiced ease. "Though you're holding me like I might shatter."
I adjust my grip, pulling her closer. "Better?"
"Much." Her eyes sparkle with mischief. "Now stop thinking so hard about the steps and just move."
The music shifts into something jazzy and infectious, and I find myself actually enjoying this. Azaria moves like liquid mercury, anticipating my lead while adding her own flourishes that make the whole thing feel like a conversation conducted in motion.
"You know," I say as we navigate a particularly complex turn, "for someone who claims to hate following rules, you're remarkably good at following my lead."
"Who says I'm following?" She dips backward, trusting me to catch her, then springs back up with a grin that's pure trouble. "Maybe you're just finally learning to keep up."
The song ends to scattered applause, but the orchestra immediately launches into another, and neither of us makes any move to leave the floor. By the third song, we've attracted a small audience of admirers, and I realize I've completely forgotten about my two-hour timeline.
"What time is it?" I ask during a brief pause between sets.
Azaria glances at the vintage watch on her wrist. "Does it matter?"
"We were supposed to leave an hour ago."
"Were we? I seem to remember someone saying we needed to stay long enough to make the right impression." She gestures toward the crowd around us, several of whom are openly filming our dancing with their phones. "I'd say mission accomplished."
She's right. The atmosphere around us has shifted completely from the cautious observation we faced when we arrived. People are approaching us now with genuine warmth, asking about the foundation, complimenting our dancing, treating Azaria like a welcome guest rather than a potential criminal.
"Besides," she adds, accepting another glass of champagne from a passing server, "when's the last time you had actual fun at one of these things?"
I consider this as she hands me a glass.
"That's what I thought," she says, reading my expression. "So we stay a little longer, we enjoy ourselves, and we give these people something genuinely positive to remember about tonight."
The champagne is excellent, and I find myself relaxing in ways that have nothing to do with alcohol. Azaria introduces me to people I've seen at events for years but never actually talked to, and her infectious energy makes even the stuffiest conversations feel light and entertaining.
By the time we finally make it to the car, we're both slightly unsteady on our feet and can't seem to stop laughing at increasingly ridiculous observations about the evening.
"Did you see Senator Crawford's toupee?" Azaria gasps, collapsing against the car seat. "It was sliding backward all night. By the end, it looked like a small animal had died on his forehead."
"The woman with the peacock fascinator kept trying to pet it," I add, and we both dissolve into fresh laughter.
"And Mr. Nissan asked for my number," she continues, wiping tears from her eyes. "For his grandson. Who is apparently 'a very nice boy' and 'only forty-seven.'"
"Only forty-seven," I repeat, and somehow this strikes us both as the funniest thing either of us has ever heard.
Azaria falls asleep on my shoulder on the drive back home.