Over the next two weeks, Lila and Ethan fell into an easy rhythm—texts that stretched into late-night calls, lunches squeezed between meetings, stolen moments in Central Park. Ethan was witty, grounded, and surprisingly thoughtful, always asking about her choreography with a curiosity that made her heart skip.
One evening, as Lila left the dance studio, Ethan was waiting outside, leaning against a lamppost with a grin.
"What's this?" she asked, eyeing the envelope in his hand.
"An invitation," he said, handing it to her. "My firm's hosting a gala this weekend. Black tie, fancy food, the works. Come with me?"
Lila's stomach fluttered. A gala meant stepping into his world—glamorous, high-stakes, far from her worn dance shoes and rehearsal halls. But the way he looked at her, hopeful and a little nervous, made her nod.
"Alright, Caldwell. But I'm holding you to the fancy food."
His laugh was a melody she could choreography to.