The spring gala at the Academy was more performance than celebration.
Noble daughters flaunted designer magic-infused gowns. Sons of elite families strutted through the halls like peacocks. And Evelyn stood at the edge of the ballroom in a dress she had stitched together herself, with trembling fingers and stolen time.
She felt like a fraud.
And yet, when Alexander entered, the room silenced.
He didn't look at her. Not at first. But she felt the moment his attention landed on her like a strike of lightning—sharp, scorching, impossible to ignore.
Beside her, Isabella—perfect stepsister, polished and poisonous—smiled like a cat.
"Do you think he's here for you?" she whispered sweetly.
Evelyn said nothing.
Because deep down, she wasn't sure either.
Later, as couples danced and the air thickened with tension and perfume, Evelyn stepped onto the terrace to breathe. Cold air. Open space. Silence.
And then… footsteps behind her.
"Why do you always run from the crowd?" Alexander's voice.
"I don't run," she said. "I just don't belong."
He stepped beside her, silent.
Then, "Neither do I."
She turned, searching his expression. "Then why do you stay around them?"
"Because it's expected. And because they're easy to ignore."
"Am I easy to ignore?"
A pause.
"No."
The answer came too fast. Too honest.
She stared at him. "Then what are we doing?"
Alexander didn't touch her. Didn't step closer. But his voice was lower now, almost rough.
"I don't know how to want someone like this. I was raised not to feel. Trained to be distant. Cold."
"You do it well," she murmured, not cruelly.
"I know." His eyes met hers. "But with you, it doesn't work."
The silence between them thickened, charged.
And just when she thought he might pull away again, he surprised her.
He reached out—not to kiss her, but to take her hand.
A single gesture. Small. But for him, it was a fracture in the armor.
And for Evelyn, it was enough—for now.