The Gala had always been about performance. Smoke and mirrors stitched into silk and stemware. Tonight, it shimmered beneath chandeliers shaped like constellations, gold branches dripping with light. Each step Avery took echoed against polished obsidian floors, his shoes silent but deliberate, as if each footfall said: I'm still standing.
He arrived alone.
Camera flashes kissed the air as he stepped into the main atrium. Murmurs sparked instantly. Not beside Sloane tonight? Are they separated? Trouble in paradise?
He could feel their eyes—the board members, the reporters, the rivals in tailored suits with shark-smiles. He could feel their questions pressing against his spine.
Avery kept walking.
He wore navy and silver, a modern-cut tuxedo tailored so precisely it felt like armor. On his left wrist, nestled in the cufflink, was Sloane's family crest—a subtle burnished mark of loyalty. He hadn't told Sloane he would wear it. He didn't have to.
Moments later, Sloane arrived.
