Evelyn POV
I felt it before I understood it.
The shift in the room. The subtle reorientation of attention, like a compass snapping north. Conversations dipped—not enough to be rude, but enough to acknowledge that someone important had arrived.
Adrian Cross.
I didn't turn right away. I didn't want to. The name alone carried too much history, too many half-formed memories I'd packed away and labeled irrelevant. I kept my eyes on the champagne flute in my hand, watching the tiny bubbles rise and burst at the surface.
"Is that—?"
"Already?"
"I thought he was still abroad."
Whispers slid past me like a current.
Only then did I lift my gaze.
He stood just inside the doorway, dressed in dark, tailored simplicity—no unnecessary embellishment, no attempt to dominate the room. He didn't need to. The way people angled their bodies toward him did that for him. My father was already moving in his direction, smile sharpened into something strategic. My mother followed, composed and eager.
Miranda turned last.
Her reaction was immediate and practiced—surprise softened into pleasure, pleasure reshaped into confidence. She crossed the room as if she'd been waiting for this exact moment, heels clicking lightly against the marble floor.
"Adrian," she said, her voice warm, public, perfect. "You're early."
"Plans changed," he replied.
His voice.
Lower than I remembered. Calmer. Controlled.
They exchanged the kind of greeting meant for an audience—hands brushing, smiles precise. Someone clinked a glass nearby, and the hum of conversation resumed at a higher pitch, energized now.
I should have looked away.
Instead, I stayed exactly where I was.
His gaze drifted—slow, observant, taking in the room without hurry. He acknowledged people with brief nods, quiet words. Then, as if drawn by something unintentional, his eyes found mine.
And stayed.
The world didn't stop. Music continued playing softly. Glasses were raised. Miranda laughed at something someone said beside her.
But the space between us stretched thin and tight.
There was no surprise on his face. No confusion. Just recognition.
Like he had been looking for me.
My fingers tightened around the stem of the glass.
He didn't approach me. Not immediately. Instead, he allowed himself to be pulled into conversation—business, inevitably. My father gestured animatedly as he spoke, clearly pleased to have such an audience. Adrian listened, posture relaxed, attention polite but reserved.
I tried to focus on anything else.
The floral arrangements. The artwork on the walls. The way no one had bothered to announce why we were all gathered here.
A server passed by with a tray of desserts. Someone laughed too loudly. Someone else mentioned projections and timelines.
Then Miranda's voice cut through again. "We were just discussing the campaign launch," she said, looping her arm lightly through Adrian's. "It's practically the perfect moment to announce it."
Of course.
My mother nodded approvingly. "With you here, Adrian, it adds weight. People listen when the Cross family is present."
My stomach twisted.
"So," Miranda continued smoothly, glancing around the room, "why don't we make it official tonight?"
Applause followed—immediate, enthusiastic.
I felt invisible.
Again.
I turned toward the staircase, intent on leaving the room quietly, when I heard it.
"Evelyn."
My name.
Spoken clearly. Deliberately.
The sound of it froze me in place.
I turned.
Adrian had stepped away from the cluster around him. His attention—undivided now—was on me. The room seemed to notice the shift a second later. Heads turned. Miranda's smile tightened, almost imperceptibly.
"Yes?" I said.
He studied me for a moment that felt far too private for a room full of people. "I didn't realize you'd be here tonight."
The lie was subtle. Polite. Socially acceptable.
"I live here," I replied.
A flicker crossed his expression—something unreadable. Regret, perhaps. Or awareness.
"It's her birthday," Miranda interjected lightly, as if offering trivia. "Evelyn's."
The word landed wrong.
Birthday.
A few guests murmured polite acknowledgments. Someone said, "Oh, how lovely." Someone else smiled vaguely.
No one moved. No announcement followed.
Adrian looked at Miranda, then back at me.
"That wasn't mentioned," he said quietly.
"No," I agreed. "It wasn't."
Silence stretched—brief, but noticeable.
Then he did something unexpected.
He stepped closer.
Not enough to cause scandal. Just enough to make the space between us unmistakably intentional.
"Happy birthday, Evelyn," he said.
Not loudly. Not for the room.
For me.
Something inside my chest cracked—just slightly.
"Thank you," I managed.
Miranda laughed softly, reclaiming the moment. "Well, since we're all gathered anyway—"
"I think," Adrian interrupted, calm but firm, "that deserves its own moment."
The room stilled.
My mother blinked, startled. My father frowned, confused. Miranda's grip tightened around her glass.
Adrian turned to the guests. "Eighteen is significant," he said evenly. "It shouldn't be an afterthought."
Every instinct told me to disappear.
Instead, I stood there, heartbeat loud in my ears, as the attention I'd never wanted finally settled on me.
And for the first time in my life—
Someone important had looked back.