The evening's tension feels like a living thing, coiling around my chest as Carter continues his carefully rehearsed apology. I nod at all the right moments, my smile polite, but my thoughts remain stubbornly fixed on Evan. His audacity is grating, yet it lingers in a way I can't quite shake.
Carter, as perfect as he is on paper, feels like another carefully set piece in the Mayfield museum of wealth and propriety. Evan, on the other hand...
"What do you think?" Carter asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.
"About what?" I blink, realizing I've missed half of his sentence.
"About my family," he says, his smile faintly strained, though he hides it well. "And tonight. Are we making a good impression?"
"It's been a lovely evening," I say, the practiced words flowing smoothly, though the back of my mind itches with irony. "Your family has been very kind."
Carter studies me momentarily, his blue eyes searching for something beyond the surface.
"Please excuse me; I need to use the restroom." I start talking before he has a chance to mutter a word.
I slip away from Carter with a practiced smile as my heart pounds. The sitting room is all polished wood and has soft lighting, but it feels suffocating, and the air is too thick with expectation.
Once I'm in the hallway, the din of conversation fades, replaced by the distant clatter of the kitchen and the faint echo of footsteps on marble. I should head for the restroom, but my feet have other plans, carrying me toward the side door I noticed earlier.
The cool night air greets me like a balm as I step outside, the heavy weight of the evening lifting just slightly. The Mayfields' manicured garden stretches out before me, every hedge and fountain perfectly placed, but it's the stars above that catch my attention. They're scattered across the dark canvas, wild and uncontained—the exact opposite of everything in that house.
"Escaping already?"
The voice startles me, low and teasing, and I turn to find Evan leaning casually against the garden wall. His jacket is gone, his sleeves rolled up, and there's a glint in his eye that tells me he planned this encounter—or at least hoped for it.
"Shouldn't you be inside, stirring up trouble?" I ask, folding my arms.
He grins, unrepentant. "I figured I'd give them a break. Besides, I had a feeling you might need rescuing."
"Rescuing?" I arch an eyebrow. "From what?"
"From my brother's riveting conversation, for one," he says, pushing off the wall and taking a step closer. "And from whatever act you're putting on for the rest of them."
My breath catches, his words hitting a little too close to home. "I'm not—"
"Don't bother," he interrupts gently, though his tone carries that same edge of defiance. "I know the look. The smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. The polite nods. The 'lovely evening' nonsense. You're as trapped in there as I am."
His honesty disarms me, and for a moment, I forget to guard myself. "And what makes you think you know me?"
"I don't," he admits, his gaze steady. "But I know what it's like to feel out of place. To have everyone expect you to fit into a box you don't even want to be in."
I glance away, the truth of his words unsettling. He doesn't push, doesn't press for more, just lets the silence stretch between us.
"You're bold," I finally say, a faint smile tugging at my lips.
He chuckles. "Bold, reckless—depends who you ask."
I should go back inside. My father's eyes will be searching for me, Carter might come looking, and the weight of the evening still waits. But out here, under the stars with Evan's raw honesty cutting through the façade, I feel more like myself than I have all night.
"Maybe reckless isn't so bad," I say softly, the words surprising even me.
Evan's grin shifts, softening into something more genuine. "You should try it sometime, princess. You might like it."
I laugh, a real laugh, and for the first time tonight, the tension in my chest eases.
He steps closer, his face more serious. "What do you say, Sophia." His voice was lower and softer than before. "Wanna be bold together?"
Evan's words hang in the cool night air, his voice soft yet charged with something unspoken. The easy smirk he's worn all evening has faded, replaced by an intensity that makes my pulse quicken. He's close now—close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes, the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw.
I should walk away. This is reckless, dangerous, and entirely out of character. But standing here, with the stars above and Evan Mayfield in front of me, a part of me wants to say yes. A part of me wants to leap into the unknown for once instead of toeing the careful line I've always walked.
"Bold how?" I ask, my voice quieter than I intended.