Robert Lanyon stood at the edge of the gala, champagne untouched, posture perfect. He endured events like this for reputation and funding, nothing more. Yet someone across the room kept drawing his attention. Not loudly. Not obviously. Simply present.

When he finally looked, something tightened in his chest. Recognition, perhaps. Curiosity. Whatever it was, he refused to name it. A donor praised his rational mind, but Robert's focus drifted. He found himself wondering what it might be like to speak without caution, to be known without consequence.

The room felt smaller. Against all good sense, he stepped closer.

Tonight was about appearances.

Robert, for once, risked one.