She descended the final steps carefully. I offered my hand without thinking. She took it. Her fingers were warm. The gold shimmered at this proximity, subtle and devastating. My thumb brushed lightly across her knuckles before I consciously stilled it.
“You’re quiet,” she said.
“I am adjusting.”
“To what?”
To the fact that I have never felt this unguarded. To the fact that I am increasingly incapable of strategic detachment where you are concerned. To the fact that I do not know how to proceed without risking something I once vowed never to risk again.
But I did not say any of that.
“You exceed expectations,” I answered instead.
Her expression softened.
I offered my arm. “Shall we?”
She slipped her hand into the crook of my elbow, and the contact settled something inside me that had been tightening all week.
As we stepped toward the door, I allowed myself one private admission.
I did not know how to date anymore. But I did know this, standing beside her felt right in a way nothing else had in years. And whatever tonight became, I would meet it without retreat.
Columbus shimmered that night.
The hotel façade rose in clean lines of glass and warm stone, every window illuminated in deliberate symmetry. The entrance was framed in cascading white florals and soft golden uplighting. Investors appreciated the spectacle. I tolerated it.
The valet opened the car door, and I stepped out first, rounding the front to assist her. When she emerged in gold beneath the hotel lights, she was stunning.
Inside, the lobby had been transformed for the gala. Crystal chandeliers refracted light across polished marble floors. A string quartet played near the grand staircase, their music weaving between conversations and laughter. Champagne flutes caught the light like fragments of stars.
I greeted board members, shook hands, and accepted congratulations. But through it all, my awareness remained tethered to the woman on my arm.
She moved carefully, favoring her knee without drawing attention to it. Her posture never wavered. If anyone noticed the subtle shift in her step, they did not comment.
“You’re watching me,” she murmured quietly as we paused near a display of architectural renderings.
“How is your knee? Should we have brought your crutches?”
Her lips curved faintly. “I’m good. Crutches don’t go with this dress.”
I continued to watch her for any sign of distress.
“I’m fine.”
“I am aware.”
That was becoming our language.
We were escorted to a table near the center of the ballroom for a formal portion of the evening. The lighting there was softer, the music lower. A candle flickered between us, its flame reflected in the gold of her dress.
She was radiant.
A woman in dramatic silks drifted between tables shortly after dessert was served. She had long curly wild red hair with a silver streak.
“A fortune teller,” Belle whispered, amused.
I suppressed a sigh.
