The lights are dazzling, almost blinding as I step into the grand ballroom. Everywhere I look, there are people in tuxedos and sparkling gowns, all mingling and laughing like they own the world. It’s Alexander’s world, after all, so maybe they do. But tonight, I have a different plan. I’m here to remind him of what he lost, of what he can’t control.
As I make my way through the crowd, the feel of my heartbeat echoing in my ears is both thrilling and a little frightening. I spot familiar faces, people I’ve only read about in magazines or seen on TV. I am a part of this world and yet, not really. Not anymore.
I brush past a waiter holding a tray of bubbling champagne. I grab a glass, the cool liquid surprising against my fingers. Taking a sip gives me a moment to focus, to gather the courage I’ll need. I am not just sipping champagne; I am sipping power, or that’s what I tell myself.
It doesn’t take long to find him, standing near a grand staircase, surrounded by a few men in conversation. Alexander Hawthorne, my ex-husband. Tall, dark-haired, and exuding the kind of confidence that used to make me dizzy. He looks the same—or maybe a bit older, a bit wiser. But I know better. I know him.
The moment is here. My heart skips when our eyes meet across the room. There’s a flicker of surprise, quickly masked by the cool, calm demeanor he’s perfected over the years. My stride is unhurried as I approach him, each step a reminder that I am not the same woman who once walked beside him, in his shadow.
“Isabelle,” he says, almost like a question, though he knows it’s me. His voice carries that smooth, velvet tone I remember too well. Around us, conversations falter, eyes watching to see what will happen next.
“Alexander.” I nod, and a smile tugs at the corner of my lips, though there’s no real joy in it. The air between us is charged, like something electric. Like all those unsaid things are hanging right there, waiting.
“It’s been a while,” he says, and his eyes are searching mine, perhaps trying to read my thoughts. I hold his gaze, refusing to be the first to look away.
“It has,” I reply simply, keeping my voice even, though inside, a storm of past emotions stirs. “I see you’ve done well for yourself.” I gesture around the lavish room, the perfect setting for someone like him.
He cocks his head slightly, a hint of amusement in his expression. “And I see you haven’t lost your flair for making an entrance.” His words are light, but there’s an undercurrent of curiosity.
I take another sip of champagne, savoring the boldness of this moment. “I thought it was time to pay a visit to old friends,” I say, glancing briefly at the men still hovering nearby, trying to listen in without appearing to.
“Old friends?” His eyebrows lift just a fraction.
“Yes, and see how things have changed,” I add, letting the implication sink in. The past we shared wraps around us like an invisible thread. There’s a history here that neither of us can ignore.
A silence stretches between us, filled with the sounds of clinking glasses and distant laughter. It’s not awkward, but charged. The kind of silence where everything is said without a word.
He clears his throat, an unusual gesture for someone as self-assured as him. “I hope you’ll find the evening pleasant. We might even surprise each other.”
His words are like a challenge, one I’m more than ready to accept. I lift my glass slightly, as if in a toast. “I’m sure we will.”
And with that, I step back, ready to dissolve back into the crowd. But not before leaving him with those thoughts, those memories. He watches me go, and I can feel his eyes on me long after I’m no longer in his line of sight.
The game has begun, and I’m ready for whatever comes next. Tonight was just the first move, the first reminder to Alexander that Isabelle is no longer waiting in the wings. Let the others wonder, let them talk. Because what they don’t know is that this is just the beginning. And beginnings can be powerful things indeed.
