The moment the photographers started to gather, the air in the ballroom changed. The polite hum of conversation sharpened into performance—the cadence of donors and board members slipping into practiced smiles for the cameras. Flashbulbs burst like small fireworks, catching silver light off every glass surface.
I smoothed my gown again, though there wasn’t a wrinkle in sight, and reminded myself to breathe. This was my world, my night. Every name card, every lighting cue, every sponsorship banner bore my fingerprints. The Foundation had to look effortless, even if I was holding it together with sheer willpower.
Then the Storm players arrived.
They entered as a group—confident, magnetic; the air shifting around them the way it always did when professional athletes walked into a room. And there, at the center of it, was Beckett.
He wore a dark suit that fit like sin and a smirk that didn’t belong in polite company. His tie was loose, his posture lazy, but his eyes—those sharp, assessing eyes—found me instantly across the crowd.
I pretended to focus on greeting a city councilwoman, but my pulse betrayed me. He was too much—too solid, too real in a night made of surfaces.
When he reached me, he didn’t say hello. He just looked me over, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You trying to run this or orbit it?” he asked.
I blinked at him, half a laugh escaping before I could stop it. “Both.”
“Yeah,” he said, voice low and sure. “You’ll pull it off.”
That simple sentence—quiet, unflinching—did more for me than the last week’s worth of pep talks combined.
He didn’t look at me like everyone else did tonight. Not as the polished face of the foundation, not as a woman balancing donations and deadlines. He just looked at me.
“Thanks,” I said softly, meaning it more than I wanted to admit.
“Don’t thank me yet,” he replied with that infuriating, disarming grin. “Night’s still young.”
And then he moved aside to talk to a teammate, leaving me standing there with my heartbeat in my throat.
It took me a full thirty seconds to realize Naomi was watching from across the room, her expression pure mischief. She mouthed wow and made an exaggerated fan motion with her clipboard. I tried to glare at her, but it turned into a smile instead.
I turned back toward the guests, slipping into my host role again, shaking hands and thanking donors. But my focus had shifted. Every time I caught a glimpse of Beckett in the crowd—laughing with a board member, leaning casually against the bar, his tie still perfectly crooked—I felt steadier. Like I could actually breathe.
He didn’t have to say much. Just being there, looking at me like I wasn’t about to crack under the weight of everything, was enough.
The gala lights glittered off the silver walls, music swelled softly in the background, and for the first time all evening, I didn’t feel like I was pretending.
He smiled at me from across the room, and I smiled back—small, real, unguarded.
And just like that, the chaos quieted.
My phone buzzed just as Naomi gave the five-minute warning. I had my cue cards in one hand, the microphone checklist in the other, and the gala lights felt too bright, too hot. Seeing his name flash across the screen made my stomach twist.
Kyle.
I ducked into the side hallway, the hum of conversation fading behind the heavy doors. The air was cooler here, quieter. I pressed the phone to my ear and tried to sound calm.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey, babe.” His voice was rushed, that same harried tone I’d heard too many times. “Listen, I’m so sorry. They added a dinner last minute with the national-team scouts. I can’t bail.”
The words hit harder than they should have. I leaned back against the wall, closing my eyes. “You promised you’d be here.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “But this is career-defining stuff. You get it, right?”
There it was—his favorite phrase. You get it. And I did. I always did. I got it when he missed our anniversary dinner, when he skipped birthdays, when he texted instead of showing up. I’d built an entire relationship on getting it.
The sound of laughter drifted through the closed doors, muffled and distant. The gala was starting without me.
