If Ava didn’t know better, she’d think the universe was conspiring to make her forget.
The donor dinner is every kind of awful she expected—too much crystal, too many white teeth, Vince playing benevolent king in a bespoke suit. She smiles when she’s supposed to, laughs when the old men with power and liver spots make jokes about “the next generation,” lets Tristan Beauchamp kiss her hand and talk about hunting lodges like she’s already hanging her coat in one.
By the time she gets home, her cheeks hurt from smiling.
She peels off the dress, scrubs off the makeup, and stands under too‑hot water until her skin feels almost new.
When she finally crawls into bed, her phone buzzes once on the nightstand.
**D:** *Home?*
She stares at it for a beat, thumb hovering.
She could lie.
She doe
