Chapter 4 BUTTERFLIES

Footsteps and the click of the balcony handle interrupted them. Madam Anna stepped into the doorway, immaculate as a blade. “Zack,” she said, voice low but carrying, “the ambassador is leaving. A photo before he goes.”

“Of course,” he said, easy. To Lora, he added in that same offhand way that meant nothing and everything, “Don’t disappear without saying goodnight.”

Madam Han’s gaze slid to Lora—cool, assessing. “You’re with the agency?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Lora said, bowing.

“Thank you for your work,” Madam Anna said, the words polished, the period sharp. Approval and dismissal in the same breath. She pivoted, and Steve followed her inside.

Lora stood a moment longer in the rain-soft air, pulse trying to settle. She looked down at the card in her hand. A number. A name. Not proof, not yet, but a bridge she hadn’t had an hour ago.

Inside, the auction banged to its finish and applause rolled like thunder against glass. The last guests began to peel off; centerpieces were relieved of their candles; staff reappeared with bins and patience. Lora shifted back into the current of cleanup, ticking boxes, returning clip mics, hushing a florist who’d been shorted vases.

When the final truck door clanged shut and silence—the real kind—settled into the bones of the ballroom, she let herself sink into a chair at the linen draped edge of a table. Her feet ached, her cheeks still held the memory of smiling.

Her phone buzzed with So-ra’s face flashing across it.

Lora swiped to answer, too tired to pretend she wasn’t desperate to share. “I’m alive,” she said by way of greeting.

“Did you faint? Did he faint? Did anyone faint? I have been dying.”

Lora laughed, the sound bubbling and spilling like soda. “I didn’t faint.”

“So we’re starting at the part where you kissed.”

“We did not kiss.”

“Unacceptable. Begin again.” So-ra’s tone softened. “How was it, really?”

Lora let her head tip back, eyes closing. “He… noticed me.”

“Of course he did. Did you notice what you look like?”

“It wasn’t that.” She hesitated, trying to fit feeling into words. “It felt like… like stepping back into a moment I thought I imagined. And then finding out it’s still there.”

Sandra exhaled, all teasing leached out. “Oh, Lora.”

“I know.” She looked down at the card in her lap. “He gave me his number.”

“HE WHAT.”

“Not like that,” Lora hurried. “Work. But still.”

“Work can be foreplay,” Sandra said, immediately wicked again. “Are you going to use it?”

Lora traced the pressed letters with her fingertip. “Maybe. If I have a reason.” If I can find the courage. If I’m not wrong.

“Find a reason,” Sandra said. “Invent one. You’ve waited five years. Don’t wait another five minutes.”

Lora’s laugh came out thin. “I’ll think about it.”

“Think less,” Sandra advised, then yawned. “Okay. I’ll stop harassing you. I’m proud of you, you know.”

“For vibrating?” Lora teased.

“For not running away,” Sandra corrected gently.

They hung up. The ballroom lights dimmed to their after event hum; the quartet’s corner stood empty, ghosted by sheet-music stands. Lora rose, tucked the card securely into the pocket sewn into her dress (a small rebellion she demanded from any tailor), and headed toward the service corridor to sign out equipment.

At the far end, near the loading bay, a black car idled, the driver standing at attention beside the open back door. Pearl jacket stood there, too, checking her watch. Beyond her, framed by the spill of lobby light, Steve shook hands with the last of the donors. He spotted Lora as if his gaze had been designed to do exactly that.

“If you go to him now you’ll look eager,” a voice behind her murmured.

Lora turned. Chairman Simon stood a few steps away, hands still laced, eyes kind as winter tea. How long had he been there? She bowed quickly. “Chairman.”

“Young people rush,” he said, not unkindly. His gaze followed his son. “My wife says speed makes success. Sometimes she’s right. Sometimes,” his eyes slid to Lora, “timing does.”

Lora didn’t know what to do with the gift of those words. “Thank you, sir.”

He nodded, as if she’d answered a question correctly. “You did well tonight.” He began to walk past her, then paused. “If you’re ever unsure whether to wait or walk, ask yourself which one lets you be braver.”

He left her with that and joined his wife, whose posture softened by a degree when he slipped an arm around her.

Lora stood very still, the sentence settling inside her like a new law of physics. Which is braver: waiting, or walking?

When she looked back toward the lobby, Steve was already moving, the driver closing the door behind him. He pressed a hand to the frame as if pausing the act of departure, then glanced over his shoulder—searching. She knew, with the jolt of certainty that sometimes takes hold in the ribs, that he was looking for her.

She stepped forward.

Not a run, not a performative saunter. Just a steady walk that said I am not a wave; I am a tide. He saw her then, and his hand stayed on the open door. The pearl-jacket woman’s mouth thinned, but she drifted two polite steps away, out of earshot.

“Goodnight, Lora,” he said when she reached him, as if they were already in the habit of exchanging endings and beginnings.

“Goodnight, Zack,” she said, and his name felt like a secret she’d earned. “Thank you for trusting me.”

“Thank you for catching everything before it fell,” he returned. His gaze was direct, unhurried. “Will I see you at the foundation’s winter gala?”

“If my firm books it,” she said.

“If they don’t,” he said, gentler, “find a reason to call.”

He stepped into the car before she could answer, but his eyes held hers through the glass as the door thumped shut. The car slid away from the curb like ink pulled by a magnet, tail lights smearing red across wet asphalt.

Lora stood in the lobby’s hush with rain ticking at the windows and the scent of lilies fading from the tables. She put a hand over the card in her pocket and closed her eyes.

In her mind, a river moved. In her chest, a river answered.

It’s him, her heart said again, the voice calmer now. He is the one.