The morning after the gala dawned with a brutal clarity. The rain had washed the city clean, leaving it sparkling under a cold, sharp sun. In the penthouse, the silence felt different. Not hollow, but settled. The adrenaline of performance had faded, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion and a strange, quiet solidity.
The news cycles were already spinning. The society pages had pictures: ‘Linda Evans, daughter of Dean Peter Evans, accompanied by billionaire Cameron Tucker, makes a stunning appearance at the NYU Langone Gala.’ The caption was careful, neutral. But the photo they chose was the one of me raising my paddle, my profile a study in cool determination, with Jim’s tense, half-turned figure in the background. The narrative was tilting.
My father grunted over his coffee, scanning t
