I shouldn't have looked back.
But I did.
And he was still watching me with that same quiet intensity that made my pulse stutter in ways I didn't want to analyze too closely.
Dr. Ethan Parker. Liam's father. UCLA's distinguished professor. The man who had somehow managed to turn a crowded reception dinner into a private theater with nothing more than a glance across the room.
My chest is still tight with whatever that moment was when my mom's voice cuts through the spell like a knife. "Avery, come along. I want you to meet some of the faculty members."
I blink hard, snapping back into the reality of clinking crystal glasses and carefully orchestrated small talk. Madison materializes at my mother's side, already wearing that poised, camera-ready smile she's perfected through years of social media conditioning. It's the expression she wears like armor, designed to charm and deflect in equal measure.
My dad follows behind us, one hand tucked into his jacket pocket in that particular way men do when they're trying to project authority in rooms where they don't naturally command it. He's clearly attempting to blend in with the professors and administrators, but there's something slightly desperate about the effort.
And me? I'm dragged along like an afterthought. The younger sister. The shadow trailing behind the main event.
Until I realize exactly where we're heading.
Straight toward him.
The dean—a pleasant-faced man in his sixties whose name I've already forgotten—practically beams as he gestures toward Dr. Parker like he's unveiling a priceless work of art to potential donors. "And this is one of our absolute finest faculty members—Professor Ethan Parker. Distinguished scholar in his field, extensively published, and absolutely beloved by our undergraduate population."
Of course. Even the introduction drips with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious figures or celebrities.
Up close, Professor Parker is even more compelling than he appeared from across the room. His handshake with my father is firm and brief, the kind that speaks to practiced social skills rather than genuine interest. His nod to my mother is polite but perfunctory, accompanied by the sort of smile that says he's performed this exact interaction hundreds of times before.
Madison immediately shifts into what I recognize as her flirtation mode—leaning in just slightly, batting her professionally enhanced lashes, angling her body to show off the perfect lines of her silk dress. She's trying to position herself in his orbit like a planet seeking a more interesting sun to revolve around.
Then his gaze lands on me.
For one breathless second, I think he recognizes me from our earlier moment of connection. I think he's going to acknowledge whatever passed between us across that crowded room, maybe even smile with some hint of warmth or familiarity.
But then his expression shifts completely. The curiosity vanishes, replaced by something neutral, polite, and devastatingly distant.
"And you must be...?" His voice carries that same deep timbre that commanded attention during his conversation with the dean, but now it's completely detached. Professional. Cold.
"Avery." My own name feels small and insignificant in my throat, like I'm apologizing for existing. "I just graduated high school. Today, actually."
Something flickers in his dark eyes—recognition, maybe, or perhaps just mild interest in the coincidence of timing. But whatever it is disappears so quickly I wonder if I imagined it entirely.
"Congratulations on your achievement." The words are perfectly appropriate, even kind on the surface. But his tone strips them of any warmth. It's the voice adults use when they want to acknowledge your existence without actually engaging with you as a person. "High school graduation is quite an accomplishment. You have plenty of time to figure out what comes next."
The dismissal is subtle but unmistakable. You're young. You're inexperienced. You're not worth my serious attention.
Heat prickles up the back of my neck, though whether from embarrassment at being treated like a child or anger at his casual condescension, I honestly can't tell.
Madison, never one to miss an opportunity to establish her own superiority, slides smoothly into the conversational gap. "Avery's been considering UCLA for next fall, actually." Her voice carries that particular sweetness she uses when she's about to deliver a perfectly aimed verbal knife. "Though honestly, she's still so young. I don't think she really knows what she wants yet. College is such a big decision."
The jab lands exactly where she intended it to, and my mother doesn't even blink. If anything, she nods along like Madison's assessment is both reasonable and helpful.
Professor Parker's response is measured, professional, utterly crushing. "There's certainly no rush to make such important decisions. University life requires a particular level of maturity and self-awareness." His eyes slide over me with the kind of clinical assessment usually reserved for specimens under microscopes. "She'll undoubtedly find her path when she's truly ready for it."
I bite down on the inside of my cheek so hard I taste copper, using the sharp pain to keep my expression neutral instead of letting it crumble into the hurt and fury currently warring in my chest.
I want to scream at him that I'm not a child playing dress-up in her mother's clothes. That I've survived more genuine heartbreak and betrayal in the past week than most people experience in entire years. That I'm standing in this very hall with my sister's metaphorical knife still buried between my shoulder blades and my ex-boyfriend's cruel words still echoing in my ears, and I'm somehow managing to hold myself together with nothing but spite and social media training.
But instead, I just smile tightly and let Madison continue to bask in the attention she's stolen from me. Again.
The rest of the dinner passes in a haze of academic speeches and networking conversations. The room itself is undeniably beautiful—all polished hardwood floors and soaring ceilings, crystal chandeliers casting warm light across tables draped in pristine white linen. The kind of old-money elegance that's designed to make you feel both impressed and slightly inferior.
Various professors and administrators take turns at the podium, delivering carefully crafted remarks about academic excellence and the bright futures awaiting incoming students. My parents hang on every word like they're receiving wisdom from ancient oracles, while Madison nods thoughtfully at all the appropriate moments.
I spend most of the time scrolling through my phone under the table, watching notifications pile up from my social media accounts. Likes on my graduation photos, DMs from followers congratulating me, brand collaboration requests that have been flooding in since my follower count spiked. My online world is buzzing with engagement and opportunity, but sitting in this room surrounded by my family, I might as well be invisible.
Except—not entirely invisible.
Because later in the evening, when the formal presentations have ended and conversations have broken up into smaller groups, Zoey leans across our table to whisper something about the dean's obviously bad toupee. Her observation is so unexpectedly sharp and perfectly timed that I can't help myself—I laugh out loud.
It's not a polite, contained little chuckle designed to avoid drawing attention. It's a genuine burst of amusement, loud enough that several nearby tables turn to see what's so funny.
And across the room, so does he.
Dr. Ethan Parker's head turns toward the sound of my laughter like he's responding to some invisible signal. His eyes find mine across the space filled with chattering families and faculty members, and for just a moment, his expression isn't neutral or dismissive.
It's intrigued.
He looks away almost immediately, returning his attention to whatever colleague he was speaking with as if nothing happened. But my pulse is already racing, my skin suddenly too warm despite the air conditioning.
Because even if he didn't mean to, even if he tried to catch himself—he noticed me.
Not as Liam's ex-girlfriend or Madison's little sister or some random high school graduate who doesn't know what she wants.
He noticed me as myself. As someone worth a second glance.
And suddenly, sitting in this room full of people who treat me like I'm nothing more than potential, I feel the first stirring of something that isn't heartbreak or rage.
I feel power.