The Gala
988 Words
Switch to Atticus POV
People think I like events like this.
And to be fair, I used to.
Before every smile became a headline.
Before every interaction became speculation.
Before people decided they knew me more than I knew myself.
Atticus Everheart:
Hotel heir.
Architect.
Professional charmer.
Effortlessly confident.
Hopeless playboy—according to the tabloids, anyway.
The truth is quieter.
Less cinematic.
I design the structures I wish I could live inside—places where the world makes sense, where people stop long enough to breathe. And I keep the rest of myself tucked behind jokes and easy smiles because it’s safer that way.
Which is probably why Aliana Valencourt unnerves me.
She doesn’t fall for the persona.
She doesn’t flirt back to entertain me.
She doesn’t try to impress me—or anyone.
She just is.
Quiet, observant, gentle in ways people overlook.
A book instead of a spotlight.
A soft voice instead of a performative one.
And the more I notice her, the harder it is not to.
Tonight wasn’t supposed to be different. I told myself I’d circulate, shake hands, do the Everheart thing.
Then I saw her.
Aliana standing alone at the edge of the room, trying her absolute hardest to disappear while wearing a dress that made half the heirs in the room look twice.
She looked like she belonged in a painting.
She looked like she wanted to run.
So I went to her.
“Wanna get out of here?” I’d asked, fully prepared for her to say no.
Because that’s how she is—careful, guarded, a locked door you need permission to even approach.
But the way she looked at me…
It wasn’t a no.
Not yet.
Not fully.
And for the first time tonight, the noise around us faded.
Because the truth is simple:
I’ve been drawn to her since the moment we met.
Since she looked at me like she could see right through the version of myself everyone else is obsessed with.
Since I realized she’s the one person in any room who doesn’t want something from me.
Aliana Valencourt is quiet.
But she’s the loudest thing in my head.
And I’m determined—maybe stupidly—to be the one she finally lets in.
....
“Wanna get out of here?” Atticus asks, eyes warm, voice low enough that no one else could possibly hear.
I arch a brow. “Is that your line for all gala nights, or am I special?”
His lips curve. “Definitely special. I don’t usually rescue people who are actively trying to melt into wallpaper.”
“I wasn’t melting,” I say, lifting my chin.
“You were halfway through the wall.”
“I was observing.”
He laughs softly—because he knows I’m deflecting, knows I do it well. He leans a fraction closer, lowering his voice even more.
“You know, for someone who claims to be quiet, you’re surprisingly sharp with me.”
I take a sip of the drink he handed me. “Someone has to keep you from getting bored.”
His smile disappears—not fully, but… softens. “You don’t bore me.”
Something in my chest flutters, traitorous.
“I didn’t say I wanted to go anywhere,” I remind him.
Atticus nods once, unfazed, like he expected the pushback. Like he knows how to read the distance I keep. “I know.”
He looks around the room, then back at me with a little tilt of his head. “But you hate it here.”
“I don’t hate it.”
“You dislike it… intensely.” He gives me that maddening, knowing grin. “I can tell.”
“How?”
“You haven’t taken a full breath since you got here.”
The fact that he noticed that— No. No, I refuse to unpack that.
“I breathe just fine,” I say.
“Prove it,” he challenges, stepping closer in a way that isn’t invasive—just… present.
I inhale. Slowly.
His eyes flicker with amusement. “Better.”
I glare at him, even though a smile threatens the corner of my mouth. He sees it—of course he does.
“That’s the real reason you want me to leave with you,” I say. “You enjoy annoying me.”
“Thoroughly,” he answers immediately, then adds softer, “But mostly… I thought you might want a break.”
A pause.
A long one.
He holds my gaze again, steady, gentle in a way that disarms me far more than his flirting ever could.
“Come on,” he murmurs. “Just a walk. Two minutes. Fresh air. No one watching us.”
No one watching me.
That… is tempting.
But I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re persistent.”
He grins. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“I didn’t.”
His brows lift slightly—surprised. And pleased.
And for a moment… just a moment… it feels like the air between us turns warm, close, heavy with something neither of us is saying.
“I’ll think about it,” I tell him.
Atticus places a hand dramatically over his chest. “A maybe? From Aliana Valencourt? I’ll treasure it.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet… you’re smiling at me.”
I snap my expression back to neutral. “No I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
And—fine—I am smiling. A little.
But he doesn’t press it. He doesn’t reach out or pull me anywhere. He just stays beside me, steady, warm, aware of my boundaries… but still gently pushing at their edges.
As if he knows the door is locked
and is perfectly willing to wait outside
until I’m ready to open it.
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