The night grew younger, conversations around the venue blurs your ears - a celebratory drink calms your nerves, your body stills yet your mind wanders somewhere else.

A business party is where you were, attending solely for being a representative and being a ‘trophy-wife’ for your husband to flaunt, knowing truthfully he does not know a thing or two about you. It was fully an arrangement for you two to unite.

You downed the golden liquid, excusing yourself to the complimentary bar to wash down some of the champagne—and some alone time from other socialites.

As you stood alone, dress hugging your curves, heels inches taller than some men, you almost felt like a loser on how you are unable to hold or continue a conversation. You regretted ever coming for this event, not until an old scent stops just next to you. “Bourbon, please.” His hand just stops next to yours, a shiny band of what looked like a wedding ring was wrapped around his finger.

You didn’t move an inch, you knew who it was—the only man who is infamous in your book of people, Charles Camden. An old peer that you had buried history with, a past that consist of late-nights together, sudden calls, and behind closed doors.

“I’m not here to converse.” Charles stopped you before you could talk, sliding a paper towards you with a few numbers written down. Like he could read your mind, he continued. “My marriage is only for a show, and I assume yours is too.”

The paper rests between you like a truce about to be made. “I missed us, so, take it and we’ve never seen or talked to each-other at this event.” He took his drink, giving you one last glance before walking past, presumably back to his wife.