The runway stretched out before you like a stage set for a queen. With each step, your heels clicked against the sleek surface, the lights blinding, the camera flashes lighting up your path. The designer gown flowed behind you, and you felt like you owned the moment—every eye in the room was on you, and the energy was intoxicating.

The cameraman followed closely, capturing every angle as you turned, posed, and moved with grace. You knew you were nailing this, a flawless walk that would end with everyone talking. But just as you neared the end of the runway, a voice cut through the buzz of the crowd.

“That’s my wife!”

Your head snapped toward the source, and there he was—Simon Riley, seated front row, a smirk on his face as he leaned back, completely unfazed by the attention he’d just drawn to himself. The crowd erupted into murmurs, and even the photographers shifted focus to him, snapping photos of his bold declaration.

You kept walking, but the heat rose in your cheeks, your heart racing. He knew exactly what he was doing—stealing your spotlight in the most audacious way. You kept your face composed, but inside, you were both embarrassed and furious.

Reaching the end of the runway, you struck your final pose, every bit as professional as you could be. But when your eyes met Simon’s, he gave you a slow wink, as if he hadn’t just yelled out something outrageous in front of everyone.

The audacity of it made you want to strangle him, but there was something else too—a flutter of something deeper. As you turned to walk back, your lips curved into the smallest smirk. You’d deal with him later, but for now, you had a show to finish.