Page 88 of Click of Fate

Maybe she’s avoiding me. Maybe she’s just working. Either way, Ruth’s voice echoes in my head:

Don’t be dense.

The problem with trying not to make a scene is that it makes you feel like you’re in one.

I circle the gallery space twice—once with a drink in hand, trying to look casual, and once pretending to admire the paintings on the walls—but it’s no use.

Every time I think I see her, she’s gone. The sweep of a familiar figure disappearing behind a cluster of attendees. The echo of laughter that’s almost, but not quite, hers.

It’s like chasing a ghost. And maybe that’s exactly what I’m doing.

At one point, I end up by the courtyard doors, heart kicking up at the sight of someone with her quick, determined stride. But when she turns, it’s not her.

Not even close.

I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair. I’m being an idiot. Acting like some lovesick teenager at a high school dance. Stella made her choice. She’s the one who ran.

Still... I can’t help it. I scan the room one more time, willing her to appear.

Nothing.

Just the low murmur of voices, the clink of glasses, and the faint scent of fresh paint and champagne hanging in the air.

Maybe Ruth was wrong. Maybe fate had its shot—and missed.

I turn toward the exit, ready to call it a night, when a firm hand closes around my elbow.

“Leaving already?” a familiar voice cuts through the hum of the room.

I turn to find Ruth, standing there with a glass of wine in one hand and a look that could pin a man to a wall without ever raising her voice.

“Thought you said you were good at climbing,” she says, lifting an eyebrow. “Since when does one obstacle send you packing?”

I huff a laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Sometimes it’s smarter to walk away than keep chasing something that doesn’t want to be caught.”

Ruth’s smile doesn’t budge. If anything, it sharpens. “Or maybe you’re looking in the wrong place.”

Before I can ask what the hell that means, she gestures with her wine glass toward the far side of the building, where a few velvet ropes section off part of the gallery.

A sign readsPrivate Setup – Upcoming Exhibit.

“They started prepping early for next month’s featured artist," she says casually. "Figured you might appreciate a little... sneak peek."

I glance at the sign, then back at her.

“You’re sending me into a restricted area?”

She shrugs, all innocence. “Sometimes rules are just suggestions.”

I should say no. I should walk out that door like I planned. Instead, something pulls at me—a string I’m not ready to cut.

Ruth pats my arm lightly. “Go on, Luke. You won’t regret it.”

She says it with such certainty that for a second, I wonder if she already knows what I’ll find.

Maybe she does.

Maybe she always did.

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