Alex
The car door opens into light.
Flashes pop; my name goes up the steps like it rehearsed. The air has the clean, expensive cold that makes donors feel good about coats.
"Two donor photos, one hello to the director, and zero scandals," Dan says at my elbow. "Please repeat the comforting part."
"Zero scandals," I say. "Everything else is negotiable."
"Bracing." He straightens my lapel with two fingers. "Jaw down. Less executioner, more patron saint."
"This is my face," I tell him.
"It frightens the rich," he says. "Which helps—just not at the photo wall."
Inside is marble and hush and a quartet sawing charm into the air. Waiters move with practiced drift. The sponsor banner waits under a clean lamp like a test I've already taken.
"Water," Dan offers.
"No."
He presses a glass into my hand anyway. I obey the ritual and take one sip. He relaxes by two percent.
We start the circuit—names, hands, remarks that are really transactions. I give one camera the look it wants and starve the next one with my profile. Old families watch me with the polite curiosity of people counting zeros in their heads.
The room tilts. Not the lights—the people. Attention swings to the door in a smooth wave.
"Don't look," Dan murmurs.
I look. Of course I do.
Lucas Beaumont walks in with the museum director like the evening had planned for him. Dark blond hair slightly too free for the weather; suit that fits like it was cut in the morning; that unforced, early-arriving smile that convinces a room to agree with it.
"Abort Path A?" Dan asks without moving his mouth.
"We're adults," I say.
"Exactly," he replies. "Chaos."
Lucas does the room the way he always did when our families forced us into the same summers: thanks the volunteers like he means it, steadies a program so a shaking intern can sign his name next to Lucas's, laughs with the director without taking the moment from her. It's work. He makes it look like warmth.
He lifts his head and finds me. He always did. One corner of his mouth moves—recognition, not performance.
"Mr. Prescott," says a voice at my shoulder. Donor number one. I give him the precise sentence that keeps his check aimed at the education fund and not the new wing. He brightens like it was his idea. Dan ghosts the next step into place before the man finishes admiring his watch.
"The director would love your hello," Dan says. "Also Sophia texted: Beaumont's team would like a 'friendly frame' by the sponsor wall. Thirty seconds. I told her we don't do choreography and then put it on your route anyway."
"You enjoy your job too much," I say.
"I'm very good at it," he says, smiling like he won't be fired today.
The wall is a strip of white light and logos. The museum photographer is efficient; a freelancer circles like a small storm. I stand where the banner says stand.
Lucas crosses the space on a trail of useful laughter and stops beside me like it's an accident.
"Alexander," he says. His voice is warm in the way a good coat is warm. "Good to see you here."
"I live here," I say. "It reads as support."
"Then the city thanks you." He means it, which is irritating. The camera clicks once because the line will sit well under a caption.
"Quick shot?" the museum photog asks.
"Later," I say.
"Now's fine," Lucas answers, not pushing—practical. He angles his shoulder to spare me the glare from the panel light. He steps half a pace closer. Not touching. Close enough. Click. Click. Done.
"Painless," he says.
"We'll see," I answer.
A freelancer lunges. "Mr. Beaumont—three international projects, true? And Mr. Prescott—dating anyone? London would love to be jealous."
Dan appears between us and the question like a kind wall. "Tonight we're here for the museum," he says. "Happy to follow up tomorrow."
She leans anyway. "So, are you two—"
"We're here for the museum," Lucas repeats, pleasant and firm. His eyes meet mine for one beat—stay tidy—then he turns away.
"Donor number two," Dan murmurs. "Then the director."
"I thought there were two donors total," I say.
"Math is aspirational," he replies, steering me without touching.
We finish the donor quickly—conservation, not gossip; outcomes, not optics. My family name is carved in stone down the hall. It looks like forever. It isn't.
When I look up, Lucas is at the volunteer table again, saying thank you to the person who forgot refreshments reach this corner. People feel seen by him and then defend him to strangers online for free. Efficient.
He drifts back into my vicinity, not obvious. Enough.
"Water?" he asks, offering a fresh glass. "Less fizz. Those little bubbles are aggressive."
"You're describing water," I say, but I take it.
His mouth tips like relief. Friendly, not flirty. Note the difference. Keep it there.
The director steps onto a small riser. The room rearranges itself without complaint. People turn. The light over our row sharpens into a neat blade.
It points at my eyes. I hold still. Lucas shifts half a step, like easing weight off a foot. The beam lands on his shoulder instead. He doesn't look at me. He doesn't make a scene. He just takes the light and keeps his face professional.
It's small. It changes the minute.
"Tell me something true," he says, quiet enough to be air.
"I don't like the lights," I answer before I can cage it.
"Then we'll stand where they miss you," he replies, simple, as if picking a side of the room, not a side of something else.
Don't be grateful. Be practical.
Flash. A freelancer snaps the row. Cameras admire tidy lines of names.
The director speaks about legacy and varnish and children in uniforms who ask questions that break adults open. I listen because money is a story if you let it be, and this is the part people forget when they only read headlines.
Applause rises and falls in a polite wave. Dan is at my shoulder before the last clap lands.
"Director greeting," he says. "Then we attempt the pretend-leave—float toward the exit, somehow share a door with a certain entertainment CEO you definitely didn't notice, and give Sophia her tidy frame without surrendering a quote."
"I can't act," I say.
"Liar," he says cheerfully.
The director is sharp and kind. I shake her hand. I give her the sentence that keeps a fragile program safe another year. She exhales like we handed her a new month. This is the point. Remember that.
"Three minutes," Dan says. "Then we walk by the wall, give the room one last look, and go. Wolves tidy."
A staffer steers me past an abstract landscape because a list says I should be seen near it. I stand where I'm told. Lucas arrives at my radius with empty hands and his face set to calm.
"You handled that donor well," he says. Neutral praise, no sugar.
"Occupational hazard," I say.
He glances at the balcony doors, where rain threads the glass in polite lines. "Do you want the air?"
"Later," I say.
He nods. He can do later now. Growth looks boring until you need it.
Someone calls his name. "Two seconds," he tells them. To me: "Security wants us in the same exit window."
"I refuse to be a traffic cone," I say.
"We'll call it coordination," he answers, and goes.
Dan reappears carrying a canapé he clearly stole from a passing tray. "Eat."
"No."
"Friendship," he says, patient.
I take the coin-sized thing. It tastes like effort and salt.
Across the room, a reporter tries again. "Mr. Beaumont! Any comment on Adrian Ward joining your project?"
"It's early," he says, polite but firm. "Tonight belongs to the museum."
She turns to me. "Mr. Prescott—girlfriend? London loves romance."
"London also loves art," I say. "That's why we're here."
She blinks and moves on. Dan marks an invisible point in the air like a referee granting a clean play.
"Exit," he says. "Long route. Fewer people."
We drift. Lucas falls a breath behind my shoulder—exactly where a camera will frame him as not-quite with me. I feel his warmth and wish I didn't notice the difference between that and the room. I do.
"Just one," the museum photog calls. We give him open shoulders and empty hands. No touch. The shutter whispers. Done.
"Thank you," I say.
"Good night, Alexander," Lucas says, steady.
The foyer is cooler. Rain ticks against the glass; the city hums like it has a meeting to make. Dan checks the route and nods like the pavement agreed to behave.
My phone buzzes. A news alert floats up from someplace that has always spelled my name right.
ICE KING & GOLDEN BOY: JUST FRIENDS AT MUSEUM GALA.