Emma had never been to a gallery opening, much less one where the guests arrived in cars with drivers and names that made the coat-check girls sit up straighter. The Blackwell Foundation's glass atrium glowed like a lantern against the London night. Inside, sculptures of twisted steel rose like frozen flames. Wine glasses chimed like a second, soft weather.
Sophie fussed with the borrowed dress she'd pinned for Emma. "You look like a book heroine that learned how to murder with kindness," she said approvingly. "And that neckline? Illegal."
"I feel like a paper tiger," Emma whispered. "Fearsome on the outside. All mush inside."
"Good. Ethan Blackwell can feed mush to his enemies." Sophie squeezed her shoulders. "Text me if you need an extraction. I'll fake a fire alarm. I'm not above arson."
"I'm… probably above arson," Emma said, laughing in a way she didn't entirely feel.
Inside, the world tilted. She recognized no one and everyone at once—the faces she'd seen in magazines, the voices she'd overheard on podcasts. She kept her hands still at her sides so no one would see them shake.
Ethan found her, because of course he did. He wore a tuxedo that fit as if the tailor had learned his body as a language. For a fraction of a second, his expression flickered when he saw her—a quiet astonishment, quickly contained.
"You clean up," he said, and for the first time, the corner of his mouth curved into something that looked like a real smile, unguarded and boyish.
"You do too," she said. "Though I suspect you wake up like this."
"Occasionally." He offered his arm. "Come. There are people you should meet."
He didn't show her off, didn't parade her. He navigated the room like tide and she learned to follow the pull. He introduced her to an editor with keen eyes who said "send me something; everyone says that, but I mean it," and a poet who asked what she loved most about weather in literature. Emma, steadied by questions she could actually answer, spoke.
When she spoke, Ethan listened.
When she stumbled, he filled the space, not to eclipse but to cushion.
And yet—the evening didn't go unchallenged. It never would.
"Ethan." A voice soft as a blade. "You didn't tell me you were bringing a date."
Emma turned.
The woman before them was the kind of beautiful that made strangers trip on carpets: glossy dark hair, incisive smile, a dress that broke rules by obeying them too perfectly. She held a glass of champagne like a threat disguised as a toast.
"Sienna," Ethan said, all warmth erased. "This is Emma Collins. My partner for a university project."
"Partner," Sienna echoed, tasting the word like a wine she suspected was cheap. Her gaze swept Emma, not cruel exactly, but thorough. "How… academic."
"We're writing about landscapes," Emma said before Sienna could slice again. "External and internal. Storms and how they remake us. Do you prefer sun?"
Sienna's smile widened, impressed despite herself. "I prefer cities. Weather's for people who can afford to be ruined by it."
"Everyone gets ruined by something," Emma said, surprising even herself. "Might as well be honest about what."
A beat. Then Sienna laughed, edged and bright. "Oh, she's good. Be careful, Ethan. The honest ones are the worst."
Sienna drifted away in a cloud of perfume and sharper whispers. Ethan glanced at Emma, and there it was again—that small, involuntary smile he guarded like contraband.
"You handled that," he said.
"I pretended I was braver than I am," Emma admitted. "Paper tiger."
"Paper cuts can be fatal," he said mildly. "Careful."
The evening swelled and softened. They watched a speech; Ethan traded practiced nods with men whose suits signaled entire portfolios. Emma drifted toward the mezzanine for air. From above, the gala glimmered—gold like honey, silver like rain.
She felt him before she heard him. "Overwhelmed?"
"Under-camouflaged," she confessed. "I'm still learning how to exist in rooms like this without apologizing for it."
"You don't owe an apology to a room," he said.
She looked at him. "Who do you owe one to?"
His jaw flexed. "People who mistake my silence for cruelty. People I cannot afford to let close."
"Why not?"
"Because closeness requires honesty," he said. "And I'm economical with that."
"You could try wasting some on me."
"Careful," he said, a ghost of humor passing. "I might."
Before she could parse the shiver that ran through her, a set of older men approached and Ethan's posture changed. He went from person to persona—polite, polished, controlled.
"Charles," he said to the tallest man, an older version of his face carved in harder lines. "You remember Professor Halberd."
"Of course I do," Charles Blackwell said. His gaze moved to Emma like a searchlight. "And who is this?"
"Emma Collins," Ethan said. "My guest."
"Student," Charles corrected coldly, as if guest implied an intimacy he would not permit. "How studious."
Emma smiled, small but steady. "I do my best."
"Do your best at something useful," Charles said, already bored. "Ethan will see you seated."
When he moved on, the air seemed to warm by several degrees. Ethan's hands were fists at his sides.
"He doesn't like me," Emma said lightly, doing the work of pretending for both of them.
"He doesn't like anyone he cannot leverage," Ethan said. "You shouldn't have to weather that."
"Storms remake us," Emma said. "Remember?"
He looked at her for a long moment. "I remember."
Later, after a dance—their first, a slow orbit that felt like a negotiation of borders—he walked her to the coat check. The night outside was cold and clean, a clarity after wine.
"Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
"For showing me a door," she said, "and not slamming it after."
"My pleasure," he murmured. He reached to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, stopped himself, and let his hand fall. Control. Always control.
Across the street, three flashes popped in quick sequence.
Ethan's gaze darted toward the dark. His jaw set. "I'll have someone see you home."
"I can—"
"Humor me," he said softly. "Please."
She nodded, stepping into the waiting car, and watched him in the doorway—tall, immaculate, and, for the first time, looking a shade uncertain.
He stood in the wash of the atrium's gold light while the city pressed its face to the glass, hungry for a story