The day of the gala arrived dressed as a performance.
By midafternoon, the Ashford house transformed into controlled chaos—stylists moving through corridors, staff whispering instructions, flowers arriving in precise arrangements that looked effortless only because nothing about them was.
Evelyn sat in front of the tall mirror in her room, hands folded in her lap, while a woman she barely knew adjusted the fall of her dress.
"It fits beautifully," the stylist said. "Very elegant."
Elegant.
That word again.
The gown was a deep champagne color, silk that skimmed her body without clinging. High neckline. Bare shoulders. Long sleeves. It revealed nothing inappropriate—and yet she felt exposed.
She studied her reflection.
The woman in the mirror looked composed, polished, untouchable.
She did not look like someone whose chest tightened every time she thought of a man she was not allowed to want.
When the stylist finished, Evelyn stood and thanked her quietly. The door closed behind the woman, leaving the room suddenly silent.
Too silent.
She turned away from the mirror and moved to the window, grounding herself in the sight of the gardens below. Cars were already arriving, headlights curving like soft ribbons through the drive.
She heard the knock before she expected it.
"Come in," she said.
The door opened.
Lucas stepped inside.
He stopped immediately.
For a brief, dangerous second, he forgot how to hide his reaction.
It was subtle—just a tightening of his jaw, a stillness in his posture—but Evelyn saw it. She felt it like a spark under her skin.
"You're early," she said, grateful her voice didn't shake.
"Your father wanted a final schedule check." His gaze shifted away, deliberate. Controlled. "I can come back later."
"No," she said quickly, then softened. "It's fine."
He nodded, pulling a folder from under his arm.
As he spoke, outlining arrivals and timing, Evelyn listened—but not to his words. She watched the way his hands moved, precise and economical. The way his cuff brushed his wrist when he adjusted his sleeve.
She wondered, distantly, if he noticed the way she held herself differently when he was near.
"—Evelyn?"
She blinked. "I'm sorry. What?"
A faint crease appeared between his brows. "You're not listening."
"I am," she lied.
Lucas hesitated, then closed the folder.
"You're nervous," he said.
"I don't get nervous."
"You do," he replied quietly. "You just don't let anyone see it."
Her breath caught.
He shouldn't know that.
"I should go," he said after a moment, stepping back again, restoring the invisible boundary.
"Yes."
But neither of them moved.
The distance between them felt heavier than proximity ever had.
"You look—" He stopped himself. Shook his head. "Appropriate."
The word landed strangely.
She smiled, brittle. "That's the goal."
Lucas held her gaze a second longer than was safe.
Then he left.
The ballroom glittered.
Crystal chandeliers reflected light across polished floors. Music drifted softly through the air, elegant and unobtrusive. Conversations overlapped in practiced harmony—business masked as charm, charm sharpened into advantage.
Evelyn stood at her mother's side, greeting guests, nodding politely, smiling when required.
She felt like an ornament.
Lucas moved through the room with ease, confidence settling on him like a second skin. Men clapped him on the shoulder. Women laughed a little too readily at his remarks. He belonged here in a way she never had.
A woman in red found him.
She was beautiful in the obvious way—dark hair, sharp smile, the kind of confidence that demanded attention. She touched his arm as she spoke, leaning closer than necessary.
Something sharp twisted in Evelyn's chest.
She looked away immediately.
It's none of your business, she told herself.
But her gaze drifted back anyway.
Lucas smiled politely. Removed his arm gently. Stepped aside.
Relief washed through her before she could stop it.
The realization was worse.
"Evelyn."
She turned.
A man she barely remembered—one of her father's associates—offered his arm. "Would you do me the honor?"
She accepted because refusal would be noticed.
As they danced, she felt Lucas's eyes on her. Not constant. Not obvious. But present. Always present.
The music slowed. Applause followed.
When the song ended, she excused herself quickly, retreating toward the terrace for air.
The doors closed behind her, muting the noise inside.
She inhaled deeply.
"Running away?"
She startled.
Lucas stood nearby, one hand resting on the stone railing.
"I needed air," she said.
"So do I," he replied.
They stood side by side, not touching, the city lights stretching beyond the gardens.
"You handled yourself well," he said.
"That's what I was taught."
"Yes," he agreed softly. "That's what worries me."
She turned to him. "Why?"
"Because you disappear when you do."
Silence stretched between them.
"I don't know how else to be," she admitted before she could stop herself.
Lucas looked at her then—really looked—and something unguarded flickered across his face.
"You don't have to be invisible," he said quietly.
"In this family?" She gave a small, humorless laugh. "It's the only way to survive."
He stepped closer.
Not enough to touch.
Enough to feel.
"Sometimes," he said, voice low, "survival costs more than leaving."
Her pulse raced.
"We shouldn't be having this conversation."
"I know."
"But you're still here."
"So are you."
Their eyes locked, the world narrowing to the space between them.
Footsteps sounded behind them.
They stepped apart instantly.
Her mother emerged onto the terrace, gaze sweeping over them.
"There you are," she said coolly. "Lucas, Richard needs you. Evelyn—come inside. People are asking for you."
"Yes, Mother."
Lucas nodded once and left without a word.
As Evelyn followed her mother back into the ballroom, she felt the truth settle heavy in her chest.
This was no longer ignorance.
This was awareness.
And awareness, in the Ashford house, was the most dangerous thing of all.