Leverage

Camille’s hand trembled as she accepted the champagne flute, the delicate crystal cool against her skin. Alistair’s voice, smooth as aged whiskey, continued beside her, extolling the virtues of Mr. Sterling’s latest venture. But her gaze kept drifting, snagging on the man across the ballroom. He was still there, a lone wolf amidst the glittering pack, his emerald eyes seeming to hold a silent conversation with hers.

Mr. Sterling, a man whose sharp suit seemed to hold him together rather than adorn him, droned on about market projections. Camille offered polite nods, her mind replaying the fleeting moment of connection. The stranger had looked away when Alistair had spoken, but not before a flicker of something — recognition? — had crossed his face.

A gust of laughter erupted from a nearby group, jarring Camille back to the present. Alistair squeezed her arm, a proprietary gesture that felt like a cage. "You seem distracted, my dear. Is Mr. Sterling not engaging enough?"

"No, of course not," Camille managed, forcing a smile. "It’s just… a long day."

"Indeed," Alistair agreed, his eyes scanning the room. "We should mingle. Mrs. Albright is eager to congratulate us on the Foundation’s success."

As they moved through the throng, Camille stole another glance. The stranger was gone. A pang of disappointment, sharp and unexpected, pierced through her. Where had he gone? Had he left? She felt a ridiculous urge to search for him, to find those captivating eyes again.

They reached Mrs. Albright, a woman whose diamonds seemed to outshine the chandeliers. As pleasantries were exchanged, Camille’s attention was caught by a waiter passing with a silver tray. Among the scattered canapés, a single, intricately folded paper crane rested.

It was an oddity, out of place amongst the gourmet bites. Driven by an impulse she couldn’t explain, Camille reached out, her fingers brushing against the crisp paper. It was a deliberate act, a small rebellion against the suffocating politeness of the evening. As her fingers closed around the crane, she felt a faint warmth emanating from it.

"Is something wrong, Camille?" Alistair’s voice, sharp with suspicion, cut through the polite chatter. He followed her gaze to the tray. "A paper crane? How peculiar. The catering staff must be experimenting."

Camille unfolded the crane slowly, her heart thudding against her ribs. Tucked inside its delicate folds was a small, almost invisible piece of parchment. Unfurling it, she found a single, elegantly written word: "Tonight."