The gala invitations gleamed in Eve's inbox like gilded temptations: black‑tie attire, candlelit ballroom, donors eager to fund the Cross Institute. She stared at her reflection in the bedroom mirror, fingers brushing the tiny scar on her palm—proof that sensation could return, however briefly. Tonight, she would perform alongside Dr. Cross, a token duet to secure needed funding. Her heart fluttered in both excitement and dread.
Downstairs in the hospital's conference suite, Cross stood at a highboy table ticking through the gala's logistics on his phone. His suit—tailored midnight blue—shrank his lean frame, the collar crisp against his throat. When Eve entered, he glanced up, expression unreadable.
“Everything set?" she asked, stepping into the hush.
He pocketed his phone. “Seating ar
