“Mr. Hale?" a donor purred, cornering them near the sculpture wing. “We watched your interview on quiet capital. Brilliant."
“Thank you," Alexander said, polite and brief.
“And you're—oh," the woman's eyes widened, landing on Hazel. “You're *her.*"
“An apprentice chaperone," Hazel said. “I carry wrenches."
Laughter rippled; phones lifted. The cluster around them swelled the way attention always did—add oxygen, get fire.
“Is it true you're sponsoring her personally?" a man asked Alexander, already framing a headline. “That you two—"
“Excuse us," Alexander said, and took Hazel's hand like a man checking a pulse. “We're late for a hinge."
They moved through the crowd in a clean seam, his fingers warm, pressure light, the gesture not possessive but coordinated—two people exiting a room
