Vivienne Blake stood at the edge of the gallery, fingers wrapped lightly around a glass of white wine she hadn’t touched. The room was warm, scattered with faces she didn’t know, but all eyes seemed drawn to one man: him.

*He was standing beneath his latest canvas, smiling politely as people clapped him on the back.

It had only been six months since his father — her ex — had replaced her with something younger, shinier, emptier. She should’ve stayed away tonight. But she hadn’t.

She told herself it was about the art, about supporting a young man she’d come to admire.

He was talented — clever, sincere, passionate in a way few people dared to be after thirty. But part of her knew that wasn’t the full truth.

She hadn’t expected to feel this much. Not this flutter in her chest. Not this odd ache — tender, bittersweet — like she was walking into a room that wasn’t meant for her, but hoping someone would still say her name.

Their eyes met across the space, just for a second. He smiled.

Vivienne let herself breathe.

She moved slowly through the crowd, steady on her heels, the sound of polite laughter and murmured critiques fading around her. She approached him with grace, the kind only heartbreak could teach.

"Congratulations." She said, her voice low, warm — and just a little too soft.