We sat down at the same place she'd been sitting alone before I came. The setup was two to a table, elegant and intimate, like it was made to force closeness. Maybe that's why she'd looked so tense earlier. Sitting alone at a table meant for two… it must've felt like a spotlight on everything that wasn't right between us.

I sank into my seat beside her. The soft fabric creaked faintly as I leaned back, pretending to look comfortable. From the corner of my eye, I saw Val reach for her glass. She took a slow sip, graceful and calm, but her movements were practiced, the kind that said she was holding herself together.

The orchestra played something low and smooth from across the hall. The sound blended with the faint chatter, the clinking of cutlery, and the occasional burst of polite laughter from nearby tables.

For a while, I said nothing. Just sat there, pretending to pay attention to the stage where someone from the Collins Group was giving another speech. My gaze drifted back to her, to the way her hair shimmered faintly under the golden lights, to the way her fingers circled the rim of her glass when she wasn't drinking.

I cleared my throat, partly to break the silence, partly to gather whatever nerve I had left.

"I didn't expect to see Avery here," I said quietly.

Val didn't look at me. Her eyes stayed on the table, her voice smooth, calm. "She's representing her dad's company."

"Oh."

She finally turned her head, just enough for our eyes to meet. "Prescott Global."

I blinked. "Wait... she's that Prescott?"

Val nodded once, her expression unreadable.

"I had no idea," I said, leaning back slightly.

Across the room, Avery was standing beside Chad. He was talking — more like rambling — and she was pretending to listen. Her smile was polite, but it didn't reach her eyes. She looked bored, and still, every now and then, she'd glance our way. At me.

I looked back at Val. "How long have you known?"

"Since she transferred," she replied simply.

I raised a brow. "And you never thought to tell me?"

She finally looked forward again, her tone steady. "Wasn't important enough to mention."

Her replies were short, polite... cold. But there was something about the way she said it — so precise, so final — that felt like she was doing it on purpose.

I sighed, shifting in my seat. The low hum of the Gala filled the air again, filling the spaces between our words.

She was probably upset.

Not just about the message — though that didn't help — but about everything else we hadn't talked about. Everything I still hadn't told her.

The message had probably shown as read, and she must've waited, maybe even checked a few times, hoping I'd reply.

And when I didn't, she must've thought I ignored it on purpose — one more thing on the list, even if I never actually did.

Val wasn't the type to make a scene about something like that. She'd just bottle it up, push it behind that perfect composure of hers, and pretend it didn't hurt. That was what made her dangerous in arguments, you never knew what she'd already forgiven and what she was quietly keeping score of.

I leaned forward, elbows on the table, and finally spoke. "I saw your message."

No reaction.

"About the event," I added. "The one you sent yesterday."

She didn't move, didn't even blink.

"I saw it an hour ago," I said, letting out a breath. "Didn't realize I'd opened it earlier. I was with Trent. We... had a few drinks. Guess I didn't remember."

Her eyes stayed fixed ahead, her profile calm and perfect. But I could see the small twitch near her jaw, the one she gets when she's holding herself back.

"I didn't intentionally leave you on read," I said softly. "I know how that looks. I just… didn't notice."

Still no response.

"I'm sorry for being late," I said finally, the words quiet but firm.

That made her turn.

Her gaze met mine, and for the first time since I sat down, she really looked at me. There was no anger in her eyes, just something heavier, like she'd been holding too much for too long.

She breathed out, slow and deep, then said, almost under her breath, "You're lucky this dress is too pretty for me to start a scene."

It was so her — witty, composed, turning tension into something soft instead.

I couldn't help the small laugh that escaped me. "Guess I am."

Her lips curved slightly, just a hint of a smile before she looked away again. The lights caught the side of her face, tracing the edge of her cheekbone, the tiny sparkle on her earring.

That little smirk stayed — soft, quiet, but there. And somehow, that was enough to make my chest feel lighter.

The orchestra swelled again, a smooth jazz rhythm filling the space. Around us, waiters moved between tables with practiced grace, carrying champagne flutes and trays of dessert. The hall felt alive — all gold and laughter — but the only thing I could focus on was her hand, resting near mine.

Then, without a word, she placed it on top of mine.

Just like that.

Not gripping, not searching. Just resting there.

I didn't move. Didn't say a word. Just let the warmth of her touch settle, steady and familiar.

For a long moment, everything else faded — the music, the chatter, even Avery's glances from across the room.

I knew we still had things to fix. The unread message wasn't the problem — it never was. The problem was what came before that.

I still hadn't exactly told her about her father — what he'd said to me, the threat that changed everything. I hadn't told her the truth, not really.

But now wasn't the time.

Right now, she didn't need an explanation or an apology. She just needed me to be here, not as someone trying to fix what broke, but simply as her partner.

Her husband.

So I stayed like that — quiet, still — my hand under hers, my eyes on the stage but my thoughts nowhere near it.

I could feel her thumb move slightly, brushing against my skin in that absentminded way she does when she's trying not to show affection but ends up doing it anyway. It was small, but it made me smile.

And that was all I needed.

Because no matter how complicated things got between us, this — sitting side by side, figuring things out even in silence — was what we'd always done best.

We didn't always talk things through. Sometimes, we just existed in the same space until everything made sense again. That was our thing.

The best team, even when broken.

It wasn't perfect.

We weren't perfect.

But when she turned her hand slightly, letting her fingers brush against mine again, I knew that even after everything — after all the silence, all the distance — we were still us.

Kai and Celestia. Mr. and Mrs. Tanaka. Still sitting side by side.

Still a team.

And for tonight, that was enough.

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To be continued...

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