Evan Carrington stood a few feet away, holding a glass of champagne he had clearly forgotten existed the moment he saw her. His expression was nothing like the smirking man from the hallway. His eyes were wide, stunned, as if the floor had just shifted beneath him.
"You... you came," he said softly, almost breathlessly.
For a moment, she didn't answer. She let him look, really look, at the woman he and his friends had mocked without knowing a thing about her. The silence stretched, heavy but not hostile.
"I was invited," she replied simply.
He nodded slowly, still at a loss.
Then, before he could form another word, Dylan appeared at his side. "Well, look who decided to show—"
Dylan's smirk froze mid-sentence. He blinked, eyes dragging from the gown to her posture, to the calm steadiness in her face. His expression tightened with something sharp: irritation? Confusion? Disbelief?
"You clean offices like ours?" he sputtered. "And you look like that?"
Naomi didn't flinch. She met his gaze with a composure she didn't know she possessed. "People can look many ways," she said quietly. "Depending on whether you choose to see them."
A few guests standing nearby turned, subtly, discreetly, yet unmistakably intrigued by the exchange. Dylan's jaw clenched, color rising in his cheeks.
But before he could respond, Evan placed a hand on his arm. "Dylan," he said firmly, "enough."
Dylan pulled away, muttering something under his breath and vanishing into the crowd.
Evan inhaled deeply, eyes still on Naomi. "I am truly sorry," he said at last. "For everything you overheard. For what they said. For what I didn't correct."
Naomi studied him. She didn't see smugness now, only sincerity tangled with regret.
But before she could reply, a new voice cut through the moment: "Oh, my goodness!" someone exclaimed behind her. "Is that Naomi Brooks?"