Naomi blinked. "I... yes. But it was a group—"
"I read your paper!" the other woman exclaimed. "They said it was groundbreaking! You were only twenty!"
The energy around her shifted. Just minutes ago, she was the cleaner who wandered in; now, she was the girl whose brilliance they remembered. Guests began to gather—not out of spectacle, but out of awe. A dozen soft voices, curious faces, reaching hands wanting to shake hers. In the center of it all, Naomi stood frozen in disbelief.
And then she felt it: that prickling awareness of someone watching her from across the room.
Evan.
He had stopped mid-conversation, his drink untouched in his hand. His eyes weren't mocking, not confused, not even surprised. They were apologetic. And something else. Something heavier.
He walked toward them, weaving through the crowd until he reached her side. "You never told me," he said quietly.
Naomi met his gaze. "You never asked."
He exhaled through his nose, a soft, regretful laugh. "Fair enough."
Dr. Armistead turned to him. "Mr. Carrington, you didn't tell me you had talent like this working under your roof."
Evan's jaw tightened. "I didn't know."
"And now that you do?" Armistead asked.
Evan looked at Naomi. Really looked. Not through her. Not past her. At her.
"I intend to fix what I ignored," he said.
A flutter of emotion stirred in Naomi's chest, but she pushed it away. She wasn't ready to trust words spoken under chandeliers and champagne glow. She needed actions. She needed truth. She needed sincerity unclouded by guilt or showmanship.