The front door opens just as I reach the top step. A woman in a dark blazer smiles in that professional, practiced way that says she has seen many flavors of rich-people awkward and is unfazed by all of them.
"Welcome," she says. "Name?"
"Hale," I manage. "Evelyn. I think I'm… on the list?"
She checks a tablet. "Yes. Right this way."
She doesn't ask if I'm here with anyone else. She doesn't ask if I know anyone here. She turns with quiet confidence, and I follow because I seem to be the only person in this building who doesn't come preloaded with instructions.
The foyer is bright and warm. High ceiling, polished wood floors, simple runner rug. Family photos on a console table that I don't stare at even though I want to. The hum of conversation drifts from farther in—clinking glassware, polite laughter, the occasional too-loud anecdote.
I grab an offered glass of something red from a passing waiter and move through a sitting room where people are clustered with drinks, until I find myself in a long dining room.
The centerpiece on the table looks like it has opinions about my tax bracket. Real candles, polished silverware, a tablecloth so crisp it practically crackles. Along one wall, several doors offer glimpses of a well-lit and manicured back yard. On the opposite wall hangs a large antique mirror in an ornate frame, reflecting back the whole space.
And there I am.
My breath catches.
The makeup Lena did really was actual sorcery.
She can't correct the awkwardness of someone who's afraid they'll be asked to leave any minute, but everything looks a hundred times better in the dim mood lighting instead of the harsh fluorescent.
The soft black dress I grabbed on a whim fits… well.
My body finally remembering what having curves is supposed to look like.
Small earrings catch the candlelight when I move, and for a second I don't recognize the woman looking back at me.
But that's me.
It shouldn't feel like a revelation, but it does.
For years, I've been the practical one.
The first-clean-shirt one.
The one who blends so well into museum lighting that patrons assume I'm part of the exhibit.
But now?
Now I look like someone who makes choices.
Someone who's allowed to take up space.
Someone who doesn't have to apologize for existing.
A small, unfamiliar warmth rises in my chest. Pride. Or something very close to it.
"Your seat is here," someone says behind me.
I jump like an actual cliché and turn my head slightly, embarrassed to be caught ogling my own reflection.
I don't have to look to know who it is. All the fine hairs at the back of my neck stand up before my eyes even confirm it.
Evander.
Of course.
Up close, the details hit harder. His hair is pulled back neatly, a few strands falling loose around his face in a way that looks unintentional but… works. His features are sharp in that way some people just are—all angles and slight stubble and pale eyes and a calmness that feels practiced.
Monica called this a twerp?
That feels… wildly inaccurate.
He's already walking to the other side of the table, moving with easy, unhurried purpose. He pulls out a chair at the left-hand side, the gesture smooth enough that it feels inevitable.
His presence rearranges the air in a subtle, unsettling way. Not threatening—just noticeable. Like standing next to someone who knows exactly how much space they take up.
All the new-found confidence I just collected in front of the mirror feels suddenly fragile.
He waits, and I realize the chair is for me.
"Oh," I murmur, and step forward. The room begins to fill behind me, and it has that soft roar of multiple conversations converging, which weirdly makes me feel more exposed, not less.
I sit. He pushes my chair in, careful not to bump me, then circles around to the seat at my left.
I risk a glance at him.
No part of him looks like the awkward middle-management type Monica swore she saw. He's composed, steady, almost formal. And his jacket is definitely not from any clearance rack I've ever encountered.
If Monica thinks this is "pocket-protector-coded," we need to get her vision tested.
Monica catches my eye from down the table and gives me an exaggerated questioning look, mouthing: TWERP??
The exact wrong time to be sipping my wine. I feel it traveling down the wrong tube as I choke as quietly as I possibly can.
Evander notices the movement. "Are you all right?"
"Yes," I say, too quickly. "Just… long day."
He nods, accepting that. "Understandable."
I glance down at the place card in front of my plate: Evelyn Hale. Next to it: Evander Mercer in neat printed script.
Of course.
On my right, an elderly gentleman takes his seat with effort, the kind of man who looks like he's been a "Mr. Something" his entire life and is very tired of having opinions about construction budgets.
Evander settles beside me with practiced ease. He doesn't crowd. He doesn't lean. He folds his hands loosely on the table, phone already face-down and silent next to his water glass.
He looks like he belongs here.
Everyone slowly trickles in until the room hums properly. Monica ends up near the far end of the table, already charming a small cluster of donors. She catches my eye and gives me a double thumbs-up that makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time.
The main conversation flows down the center—funding cycles, exhibition plans, someone's child starting college. It's too far for me to follow in detail. Just a background wash of words.
At my end of the table, it's quieter. Sleepy Mr. Construction Budget on my right, and on my left, the man whose existence may or may not be oscillating between realities.
We raise our glasses for a brief toast—Dr. Leighton thanks everyone for their support, Mrs. Leighton beams warmly, glasses clink, the usual. When the conversation resumes, servers appear like clockwork with the first course.
"Ms. Hale," Evander says quietly, once the noise has settled into a comfortable murmur.
His voice has that same strange undertone as before, like an echo layered under something real. It resonates in a place that lines up perfectly with where the ring rests against my skin.
I glance sideways.
He's already looking at me. Not staring, not invasive. Just… focused. Present. Much less intimidating than he felt in the cramped chaos of the archive.
This might almost feel normal.
"Evelyn is fine," I say.
The ring stays calm. Truth enough.
He nods once. "Evelyn, then." His gaze flicks briefly to my right, taking in my already dozing neighbor, and the corner of his mouth tugs up. "I hope you don't mind the seating."
"It's okay," I say. "I have a long history of being placed near the structural support beams at events."
That earns a soft huff of amusement. "Strategic."
"My vibe probably says 'safe bet for sitting near breakable objects,'" I tell him.
A faint smile touches his mouth. "I didn't get that impression."
Imagining what impression he did get throws me off-balance. Not for the first time in my life, I have no idea what to do with my hands—I shift them on my lap, then fold them, then immediately unfold them.
His eyes spark faintly. "Are you sure you're okay?"
The question hangs there, gentle but sharper than small talk.
My instinct is to deflect. To say, I'm fine, just here for the free food and archival networking, nothing to see.
The word fine rises again.
The ring tightens. A brief, unmistakable squeeze.
I stop.
"Usually, but I've had easier weeks," I say instead.
Warmth slides back into neutral. Approved.
His expression shifts in a subtle way, some of the polite surface concern giving way to something more real.
"I heard from Dr. Leighton you'd had a… complicated few days with this donation," he says. "I don't imagine your work is usually that disruptive."
My fork hovers over my salad. "You'd be surprised what counts as disruptive in archival work."
"Try me."
The way he says it doesn't feel like a challenge. More like he actually wants the answer.
I take a breath. "We had a taxidermied squirrel arrive once that turned out to be full of live beetles. That was a bad Friday."
The corner of his mouth curves. "That sounds memorable."
"And someone once donated six boxes of their grandmother's 'personal correspondence' that turned out to be a decades-long series of angry letters to the editor about grocery prices." I spear a cherry tomato. "But none of those rewrote my notes while I watched helplessly."
His head tilts. "Rewrote?"
Fuck. I immediately wish I hadn't said that. Being forced to tell the truth is starting to mess with my internal filter.
"I mean," I backpedal. "Just… I'm having trouble describing them. The items. Everything about them feels—uncertain." My pulse speeds. I choose my next words carefully. "It's like they don't want to be pinned down yet."
The ring hums faintly in acknowledgment. Truth, in a roundabout way.
Evander's gaze drops, almost absently, to my right hand.
To the ring.
He doesn't stare. It's a quick flicker of attention, gone as soon as it appears, but I feel it like static under my skin.
"That seems… unusual," he says, which might be the understatement of the century.
"It's not in the standard training," I agree.
His lips twitch. "I would imagine not."
For a beat, we just eat. The salad is very good and also utterly wasted on my nervous system.
"Monica said you've worked at the archives for several years," he says after a moment. "Why that, of all things?"
Most people ask with a tone that suggests they're trying to figure out why I chose something so dusty and quiet. He doesn't sound like that. Just curious.
"Honestly?" I say.
He nods.
The ring stays pleasantly warm. Encouraging.
"Because it doesn't lie," I answer. "The work, I mean. The records might be gaps and guesswork sometimes, but the paper doesn't smile at you while planning to do something that contradicts everything it just said."
His eyes sharpen. "You prefer honest problems."
"Yes." I push a leaf around my plate. "If something is broken on the shelf, I can see it. Label it. Fix it. Or at least decide where to file it. People are… harder to catalog."
He's quiet for a second longer than is strictly comfortable.
"I think that makes perfect sense," he says at last.
The ring flares warm against my skin.
He means it.
The scrape of a chair leg draws my attention briefly; a server comes by with the next course. Conversation swells, then ebbs again.
When I glance back at Evander, he's still watching me with that steady, measuring focus. Not in a dissecting way. More like he's comparing what I'm saying to something he already knows.
"Has the ring always been yours?" he asks suddenly, voice lower.
My stomach drops.
"What?" My own voice comes out sharper than I intend.
He nods toward my right hand again, where the silver band sits perfectly innocent against my pinky. "It suits you. I was wondering if it was an old piece."
Every part of me wants to say yes. Or it's nothing. Or just something from work.
The ring tightens again. A wordless, constricting no.
I swallow. "No," I say slowly. "It, uh… came with the donation." Truth. "And then it… stayed."
His eyes darken for a heartbeat. "Stayed," he repeats. "You can't remove it."
Not a question.
"No." The word lands heavier than I want it to.
The ring hums, not displeased.
Evander is very still.
My heart is loud in my ears.
He looks away first, toward the head of the table, where Dr. and Mrs. Leighton are fielding a cheerful argument about whether certain artifacts should ever leave their home countries. When he looks back, his expression is smoother again.
"That sounds… inconvenient," he says.
I huff a breath that isn't quite a laugh. "That's one way to put it."
For half a second, I think I see something flicker at the edge of his irises—gold, like in the archives, catching the candlelight.
Then someone across from us asks him a question about a grant budget, and the moment breaks.
He answers easily, sliding into professional mode, outlining numbers and timelines in a way that makes three older donors nod like satisfied owls. I listen with half an ear, the words themselves secondary to the way he shapes them. Precise. Calm.
No lies.
The ring is quiet.
Mr. Construction Budget on my right finally wakes fully when dessert arrives and launches into a long story about a bridge dedication in the eighties. I nod in the right places, let the words wash over me, and steal glances at Monica down the table, who looks like she's mid-saga about interoffice drama.
At some point, Mrs. Leighton comes by our end, hand light on my shoulder as she thanks me for "taking such good care of all those treasures." Her warmth feels genuine. The ring stays still.
By the time coffee appears and people start to drift back toward the sitting room, my nerves are frayed but intact.
I stand, smoothing my dress again, more out of habit than necessity.
Evander rises when I do.
"Thank you for coming," he says.
"You make it sound like I had a choice," I say lightly, then instantly regret it.
To my surprise, his mouth curves. "You did. Most people find reasons to decline invitations like this. You didn't."
"That might say more about my decision-making," I reply.
"Or something else." His gaze dips briefly once more to my hand. "If you ever… need anything related to that donation, you can contact me directly. It's easier than going through six people."
The way he says it makes my skin prickle.
"You mean if something else gets weird," I translate.
"I suspect you and I may have different thresholds for 'weird,' Evelyn," he says quietly. "But yes."
The ring pulses, a single deep thrum that feels suspiciously like agreement.
I nod, because words feel dangerous. "Okay."
He inclines his head, then steps back, already being pulled toward another conversation by Dr. Leighton's call.
I slip out into the hallway, needing a moment to breathe. The evening was… a lot. Interesting, but a lot.
Monica finds me almost immediately, like she has a sixth sense for emotional overwhelm.
"There you are," she says, linking her arm through mine. "I wanted to catch you before you disappeared."
Her smile is soft, not teasing. "You did good, Evie."
I let out a slow breath. "I survived."
"That counts."
She gives my arm a little squeeze. "And hey, look at you sitting next to the two most eligible bachelors all evening. Not bad for your first donor-dinner post-breakup."
I roll my eyes gently. "Please don't even start."
She grins. "Fine. Sleepy and the… politely tall one."
"Better," I murmur, even though my face warms, which she definitely notices.
Her voice softens. "He looked better behaved keeping you entertained tonight. I think I might've misjudged him earlier."
"You think?" I say, but without heat.
"Okay, okay." She bumps my side lightly. "Maybe he wasn't a twerp. Maybe."
"That's generous of you."
"I'm evolving," she says. "Slowly. Like a fern. Or some other slow-growing thing."
I huff a quiet laugh.
She gives me one more squeeze. "Go. Rest. Text me when you get there so I know you didn't get kidnapped by one of our city's many active serial killers and their assistants."
"Monica—"
"Or seduced by one." She lifts her eyebrows. "Equally dangerous."
I shake my head, but I'm smiling now. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Evie," she says warmly. "And hey—really. You did great."
I leave the house feeling lighter, steadier, the ring warm against my skin.
Outside, the night air is cool against my bare arms. I walk back down the stone path, heels clicking softly, the house glowing behind me like a scene in someone else's life.
I unlock my car and slide into the driver's seat.
For a moment, I just sit there, hands on the wheel, heart thumping a little too fast.
Then I look down at my right hand.
The ring gleams faintly in the streetlight, smooth and stubborn and exactly where it wants to be.
As I pull away from the curb, the neighborhood slipping past in orderly lines of trees and old houses, one thought settles in my chest with more certainty than anything has in days:
Whatever this is, I'm not going back to the version of myself who would have pretended everything was fine.
Not with this ring.
Not with what it's already shown me.
And definitely not after tonight.