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“You poor thing.” Karen looks at me with genuine sympathy that I don’t deserve because I’m lying to her, and the lying generates the grinding feeling it always does—the sensation of something inside me resisting its own output. “Let me talk to the caterer. I’m sure they can accommodate—”

“Mom.” Ruby puts her hand on Karen’s arm. Gentle. The way Ruby handles her mother—with love and desperation in equal measure. “He’s fine. I promise. I’ve got it handled.”

Karen looks at me one more time, assessing, then pats my cheek. Her hand is cool and soft, and the gesture carries a tenderness that I don’t have a framework for because no one has ever touched my face like that. Like I’m someone’s child. Like I belong to a family.

“You let me know if you need anything, sweetheart,” she says, and then she’s gone, swallowed back into the room, and Ruby exhales beside me.

“You did good,” she whispers. “But she’s going to try again. She always tries again.”

Ben finds us twenty minutes later.

He doesn’t approach directly. I’ve been tracking him since we walked in—he’s been at the bar, positioned with a clear sightline to the entrance, watching every person who comes through. When he moves toward us, it’s unhurried, beer in hand, the walk of a man who’s in no rush because he already knows what he’s looking for.

“Rubes.” He hugs Ruby—one arm, brief, the kind of hug that’s also a check-in. He scans her face. “You look good.”

“I’m great. Thanks, Ben.”

He turns to me. We’ve already met—the lobby, the handshake, the narrowed eyes. But that was a greeting. This is an interview.

“Aiden.” He extends his hand again. I take it. He holds it for four seconds, which is approximately two seconds longer than social convention, and his grip applies steady, increasing pressure—not aggressive, but deliberate. He’s testing me. Again.

I match his pressure exactly. I don’t increase it, don’t decrease it, don’t look away. I hold his gaze and wait for him to finish whatever assessment he’s running. For Ruby’s sake, I hope I pass.

He lets go. His jaw works slightly.

“So. Software consulting.” He takes a sip of beer. “What kind of software?”

“Enterprise systems. Cloud infrastructure. Data optimization for mid-size companies.”

“Hm.” He nods slowly. “That’s good money.”

“It’s comfortable.”

“Where’d you go to school?”

“Virginia Tech.”

“You major in computer science?”

“Yes.”

“You seem young for consulting. Most guys I know in tech are doing the corporate thing at your age.”

“I prefer the independence.”

Everything I’m saying is from Gemma’s backstory packet, and I’m delivering it cleanly, without hesitation, without the micro-delays that would signal deception. But Ben isn’t listening to my answers. He’s watching how I deliver them. I can see it—the cop brain running underneath the casual conversation, looking for tells, for inconsistencies, for the thing that doesn’t fit.

“You always this calm?” he asks. And the question sounds casual but carries a weight that tells me it isn’t.

I lift one shoulder in a shrug that I hope looks natural, human. “I’m a calm person.”

“Yeah.” He studies me over his beer. “That’s what I’m noticing.”

Ruby appears at my elbow. “Ben, stop interrogating my boyfriend.”

“I’m not interrogating. I’m conversating.”

“That’s not a word.”