Chapter 8 - The Gala
Eighteen months later, Chicago summoned me back.
The annual Midwest Design & Architecture Gala was being held at the Art Institute of Chicago, celebrating the most influential designers in the region. The Restoration Project had been nominated for Design Innovation of the Year. What had begun as an escape in a Wisconsin workshop had transformed into a nationally recognized design studio, with Thomas managing sustainable timber procurement and fabrication while I led architectural design.
Walking into the grand ballroom was surreal.
Two years ago, I had fled this city in the dead of night, wearing an ivory dress stained with humiliation. Tonight, I wore an emerald green silk column gown that flowed like liquid around my ankles, my hair swept up into an elegant chignon, exposing my bare shoulders. Around my neck hung my grandmother's vintage emerald necklace, glowing beneath the massive crystal chandeliers.
Beside me walked Thomas Vance.
He had traded his faded denim and work boots for a tailored midnight-blue tuxedo that fit his broad frame flawlessly. His dark hair was neatly styled, but he hadn't lost an ounce of the quiet, commanding presence that made him look like a mountain among manicured garden hedges.
""Comfortable?"" I whispered, slipping my hand into the crook of his arm.
Thomas looked down at me, an amused half-smile touching his lips. ""The shoes are too tight, and there's too much sparkling water. But seeing you in that dress? I'd wear this monkey suit to the moon.""
I laughed, leaning into him, feeling the solid, immovable strength of his arm beneath the wool.
""Hannah Carter?""
The voice was like cold grease poured over hot glass.
I turned slowly.
Ryan Cole stood three paces away, holding a half-empty champagne glass.
He looked older. The crisp, boyish charm he used to wield so effortlessly had thinned, replaced by faint graying at his temples and lines of tension around his mouth. Beside him stood Lauren.
She wore an elaborate pastel pink gown, but her smile was brittle, her shoulders pulled tight toward her ears. The sparkling diamond ring on her left finger was massive, flashy, and ostentatiously angled toward every passerby—a desperate badge of validation.
""Ryan,"" I said, my voice smooth, polite, and completely devoid of warmth. ""Lauren. Good evening.""
Ryan’s eyes raked over me, widening slightly at the emerald dress, the posture, the total absence of the trembling woman who had dropped her wedding band on a hotel hallway floor.
""You look... different,"" Ryan said, clearing his throat. His gaze drifted to Thomas, who stood beside me like a sentinel carved from granite. Ryan's jaw hardened. ""I see you brought your handyman to a black-tie gala.""
Lauren winced slightly, tugging at Ryan's sleeve. ""Ryan, don't.""
Thomas didn't flinch. He didn't even shift his weight. He looked at Ryan the way an architect looks at a dry-rotted stud that’s about to collapse under its own weight.
""Actually, Ryan,"" I said with a light, musical chuckle that carried effortlessly over the string quartet, ""Thomas is my business partner. And the co-founder of the studio that’s nominated for the grand prize tonight.""
Ryan’s face flickered with a flash of bitter resentment. ""Right. The rustic lumber thing. Mason told me about it. Glad my down-payment money went to good use before Evelyn bled me dry.""
""Every penny of your money was returned to your bank account, Ryan,"" I replied calmly. ""You didn't fund my success. You simply freed up my schedule.""
A low murmur rippled through the small cluster of designers standing nearby. Several people turned to look.
Lauren stepped forward, trying to soften the humiliation burning across Ryan's cheeks. ""Hannah, congratulations on the nomination. Really. We’re... we’re married now. Last spring.""
""I know,"" I said honestly. ""Natalie told me. I wish you both exactly what you deserve.""
The double meaning hit Lauren like a slap. Her smile collapsed completely. Everyone in Chicago knew what had happened after our breakup: Ryan had married Lauren six months later in a rush to save face, but the rumor mill was already buzzing with stories of their explosive arguments at country clubs and Ryan's relentless wandering eye.
She had fought so hard to steal a man who wasn't hers, only to realize she had won a prize with an empty center.
The master of ceremonies tapped the microphone at the front podium.
""Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. The presentation for Design Innovation of the Year is about to begin.""
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""If you'll excuse us,"" Thomas said, his deep voice slicing through the tension like an axe through birch. ""We have an award to accept.""
We walked past them into the spotlight, and for the first time in my life, I didn't look back to see if Ryan Cole was watching me go.
