The changing room door clicked open and Alexander stepped out, tugging at the cuff of a navy jacket that clearly wasn't made for him. Tailored, technically, but not to his shape.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror—darker, heavier, missing that clean pop of the white suit he'd walked in with.
He took a breath, adjusted the sleeve, tried to convince himself it looked fine.
It didn't.
"Alexander."
Kim's voice sliced through the air, sharp and impatient. He marched over, tablet in hand, face already twisted with disapproval.
"Please tell me," Kim said, voice low but still packing a punch, "you didn't just ditch the signature white suit for that."
Alexander didn't flinch. "It was soaked in wine. I wasn't about to spend the night smelling like a bar."
Kim let out a noisy sigh and paced. "You should've waited. We had backups—white, pressed, ready. Not… whatever this is." His eyes ran up and down the navy suit, like the fabric itself had insulted him. "You know how many people are watching you tonight?"
Alexander shrugged, calm. "Plenty. I'm guessing most of them would rather see me clean than dripping Merlot."
Kim's jaw worked. "This isn't about comfort, Alex. It's about image. You walk in wearing white, it says something. You walk in wearing navy, and it's just noise."
Alexander didn't answer right away. He smoothed his collar, staring at his reflection, looking miles away.
"Maybe noise is what this place needs," he said, almost to himself.
Kim frowned. "What was that?"
"Nothing." Alexander's lips twitched, half smile, half dare. "I'll handle the fallout. You deal with the rumors."
Kim pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're impossible, you know that?"
Alexander walked past, moving slow, the faint scent of expensive cologne and wine trailing after him.
"Maybe," he called back, not turning around. "But I'm never dull."
Back in the event hall, chandeliers threw light across navy fabric instead of white.
Alexander glanced toward the far corner, where the waitstaff moved in a quiet current, black and silver.
Somewhere in that flow, he pictured a pair of trembling hands, still apologizing.
He caught himself looking for them.
The ballroom glittered—sparkling crystal, laughter, clouds of perfume—but Alexander's mind drifted, half-tuned out.
Conversations flickered around him, flashes of white smiles and champagne, but none of it stuck.
He nodded at his name, gave the smile everyone expected from "Alexander Hale, the star," not the man under the jacket.
"Mr. Hale, this way, please!"
"Alexander, just one photo—"
"Congrats on the nom!"
He glided through the crowd, untouched drink in hand. Every so often, his eyes strayed to the edges of the room—the staff carrying trays, replacing glasses, almost invisible.
The boy was gone.
He caught himself searching again. Ridiculous. Why should he care? Accidents happen, wine spills, the world keeps spinning. But his eyes swept the crowd once more before he let his co-star's greeting pull him back.
"Something wrong?" she asked, light and easy.
"Nothing," he said. "Just… thought I saw someone."
She laughed, missing the point. "Someone interesting?"
Alexander's smile deepened just enough to end the conversation. "Something like that."
He turned away before his thoughts could wander.
Downstairs, it was different. No music, no small talk—just water rushing, plates clattering, and Leo's hands moving in the endless cycle of scrubbing dishes.
Soap streaked his arms, steam hung thick in the air.
His sleeves were rolled up, damp and uncomfortable.
Every so often he muttered to himself, sharp and quiet.
"Idiot. Had to mess it up, didn't you?"
A plate slipped, but he caught it. "Careful," he muttered, setting it down.
A chef dropped another tray into the sink. "Keep up, new guy," he called, not unkind, just used to chaos.
Leo nodded, voice rough with heat. "Yeah. I'm on it."
He sped up, hands aching, but at least he felt grounded.
His mind wouldn't quiet down, though. He kept replaying that look—the calm in Alexander's, the steady voice saying it's fine.
The suit. The presence. Everything about Alexander screamed out of reach.
Leo bit his lip and scrubbed harder.
"Forget it," he whispered. "You're never seeing him again."
But fate wasn't finished.
When the applause faded and the music died, the hall stood empty, echoing with what was left behind.
All that lingered were the clatter of trays, the crinkle of plastic bags, and the weary sighs of staff sweeping up glitter someone else had tossed.
Alexander's car slipped down the red carpet—what was left of it, anyway, half-rolled and fraying at the edges.
A few stragglers still called his name, flashbulbs popping in the near-empty dark.
He managed a polite, distant smile before the door shut.
The tinted glass turned the world outside into streaks of gold and black.
Inside, Leo hunched over the last table.
His sleeves were soaked, fingers wrinkled from endless scrubbing, feet aching so badly he winced every time he shifted his weight.
Mrs. Zara tapped her pen, each click sharp and purposeful as she counted bills by her clipboard.
"Next time, Leo," she said, her voice tight but not mean, "try not to turn a VIP into a walking art exhibit, yeah?"
He pushed out a laugh—nervous, tired. "Yeah… sorry."
She sighed and slid a folded envelope across the table.
"Seventy. Lucky I didn't cut it down to fifty."
Leo's hand hovered. "I thought—"
"Two hundred? After you nearly got me fired?" She raised an eyebrow. "Take it and be grateful."
He bit back whatever else he wanted to say, tucked the envelope into his pocket. "Thank you," he mumbled, barely louder than the clink of leftover glassware.
Mrs. Zara turned away.
Leo grabbed his damp jacket.
The hall felt smaller now, stripped of its shine—just stacked chairs, half-rolled carpet, and that lived-in, tired air.
The smell of wine hung around, a faint reminder of what the night used to be.
Outside, the night air hit him—cool, sharp, honest.
He let the wind mess up his hair and looked over at the staff entrance, half-lit and empty.
A black car slid past, windows dark, nothing to see inside.
For a second, the ballroom's light caught his reflection in the glass—a quick flash that made the whole world pause.
He had no idea who was inside that car. Not yet.
But the moment felt like a promise, like something about to happen.
Then the car disappeared.
Leo gripped his bike, didn't climb on right away, just rolled it along the silent street.
The tires made a low humming sound against the pavement, steady and real.
His arms felt heavy, his heart even more so.
Still, a small smile crept in.
Lila was probably snoring already, phone in hand.
Mom would be out cold on the couch, worn out as always.
And maybe—just maybe—tomorrow would be a little lighter.
He glanced back once, down the road where the car had vanished.
"Guess that's that," he whispered, and his shoulders eased a bit as the night seemed to breathe around him.
He kept walking, letting the streetlights pull him forward, the night folding in close—like a secret waiting to be told.