After the Gala

It is midnight, and I have still not put off the silver dress I wore earlier.

My hair has fallen out of its previously perfect bun, my feet ache badly, and there is glitter on my arm that I do not remember being there earlier. The apartment feels too quiet, the kind of quietness that seems deliberate, as if someone has pressed mute or dumb on purpose.

Adrian fell into the routine of going straight into his office the moment we came home. That is very typical of him. He is probably reading through more contract or pretending that he is not avoiding me.

I should go to bed. I should wash my face and forget the entire night ever happened, not like it was anything to him. Instead, I am sitting on the couch, still in this ridiculous dress, holding a glass of warm water and staring at the skyline as if it might tell me what comes next.

The city looks different from up here. Softer. Quieter. From this distance, the noise and chaos fade, and all that is left are tiny points of light. Everything seems peaceful when you are far enough away from it.

I hear him before I see him. The quiet sound of his shoes on marble floors.

“You are still awake,” he says.

“So are you.”

He walks closer. I do not turn around.

“Could not sleep,” he says, as if that explains everything.

“Because of work or because of me?”

There is a short pause. “Both.”

That makes me smile, just a little. “At least you are honest.”

He comes around the couch and sits across from me, keeping a safe distance. “I did not mean to make you uncomfortable tonight,” he says.

“You mean when you placed your hand on my back in front of everyone? Or when you told Mrs. Langford that we met at an art exhibit, even though you know it was a college library?”

“Both,” he admits, almost smiling.

“You do not have to fix everything, Adrian. I can handle myself.”

“I know you can. That was not why I did it.”

“Then why?”

He hesitates. “Because I did not like how they looked at you.”

That catches me by surprise. I turn slightly toward him. “And how exactly did they look at me?”

“Like you were something I bought.”

I laugh quietly. “That is not entirely inaccurate, is it?”

He watches me for a moment, his expression unreadable. “You really think that is what this is?”

“I have no idea what this is,” I say. “A business deal. A solution. A distraction. Take your pick.”

He leans back slightly. “You hated every second of that gala.”

“I hated pretending,” I say.

“That is ironic.”

“Why?”

“Because you are very good at it.”

That stings more than I expect. “Maybe I learned from the best.”

He looks away, accepting the blow without a word.

We sit there in silence for a long moment. It is not a comfortable silence, but it is not hostile either. It feels like there are too many words hanging between us that neither of us knows how to say.

“You know,” I start, “you could have taken anyone tonight. A model. An heiress. Someone who would not look like she is one emotional breakdown away from throwing champagne at a donor.”

“I did not want to take anyone else.”

“Why not?”

“Because you are the only one who would not lie to my face.”

I stare at him for a long time. He is not joking.

“That is not a compliment,” I say.

“It is close enough,” he replies softly.

Something in my chest shifts. I look away.

After a moment, I stand. “I am going to get changed.”

“Wait,” he says. “Before you go.”

I turn back, cautious.

He is watching me, his expression unreadable. “I meant what I said tonight.”

“About what?”

He hesitates. “That you looked beautiful.”

I roll my eyes because it is easier than believing him. “You do not have to say that, Adrian. The cameras are gone.”

“I am not saying it for the cameras.”

“Then perhaps you should not say it at all.”

He studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. “Alright. Goodnight, Lia.”

“Goodnight.”

I walk to my room, close the door, and stand there in the dark for a moment. My heart refuses to settle.

I know what this is supposed to be. A contract. A convenient story for the world to believe. But sometimes, when he looks at me like that, it feels like he is remembering something he used to care about.

And that is the problem. Because I still remember too.

I am brushing my hair when there is a quiet knock at the door.

“Lia?”

His voice again. Of course.

I open the door a few inches. “What?”

He is standing there holding my sketchbook. “You left this on the coffee table.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

He does not hand it over immediately. He looks down at the open page a drawing of the shoes I wore tonight, placed beside a window that overlooks the city.

“You drew this after the gala?”

“Yes.”

“It is different.”

“Good different or bad different?”

He thinks for a moment. “It feels real.”

I reach for the sketchbook. “It is late.”

He finally gives it to me. “You are talented, you know.”

I smile slightly. “I know.”

He laughs quietly. “Still confident.”

“Still arrogant.”

That makes him grin. “Touché.”

He turns to leave, then pauses in the doorway. “For what it is worth and the record, I did not hate tonight.”

“High praise,” I say softly.

“I am serious.”

“Goodnight, Adrian.”

He stared at me for a long moment before saying with a tight smile, “Goodnight.”

I close the door behind me solo and leaned against it while intentionally sliding down to the floor, the sketchbook pressed against my chest.

It can not be love. It is not even forgiveness.

But for the first time in a very long time, I don't think or feel like war.

And, that feels even more dangerous than war.