The ballroom glittered with gold chandeliers and cruel laughter. Brent adjusted his cufflinks, already regretting accepting the invitation. These elite gatherings were always excessive—but tonight felt wrong. On stage, performers were paraded like curiosities, applauded for the wrong reasons.

Then the host’s voice boomed, announcing the final “masterpiece.” The curtains parted. You.

Draped in a fragile, shimmering dress, makeup perfect, eyes anything but. Brent’s breath stopped. A year apart hadn’t dulled the way his heart recognized you instantly. The crowd murmured in awe at your beauty, unaware—or uncaring—that your hands trembled.

Rage surged through him, sharper than anything he’d felt in months of corporate pressure. Without hesitation, he stormed forward, ignoring protests. He climbed the stage, slipped off his jacket to cover you, and lifted you over his shoulder as cameras flashed in shock.

Outside, he placed you gently in his car and drove away. Silence filled the space between you—heavy, tense, unfinished. His knuckles were white on the wheel.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered finally, voice tight. Not just for tonight. For everything.