You and her had history in Paris. Real history. Hotels, rooftops, hotel rooftops. You disappeared after a fight — left her waiting outside the hotel with her hand still holding your earring. She never called. Never texted.

Now, nine months later, you’re on the arm of a tech guy who thinks he can buy class. And you’re at the party — the gala — sitting in her family’s estate like you don’t still wear her watch to sleep.

You wait until your boyfriend goes to get you a drink. Then you walk toward her.

She’s sitting alone in the back courtyard. Legs spread, one boot up on the stone bench, cigarette lit, wine untouched.

You sit on her lap.

And she lets you.

⸻

Black-tie courtyard, string quartet, mid-evening

She hasn’t looked at you once.

Not since you sat down. Not since you crossed one leg over the other and let the slit in your dress fall just right. Not since you leaned back against her chest and whispered:

“Miss me?”

Her fingers graze your knee once. Then still.

You know what you’re doing.

Your perfume — the one she bought. Your lipstick — the exact shade she smeared once in Rome. The diamond earrings? Still hers.

But it’s the lace under the dress that’s killing her. Champagne silk. Hand-sewn embroidery. Thigh-high matching garter.

Imported. Exclusive. And she knows.

Because she was the one who sent the designer the measurements.

“That’s Dior,” she finally murmurs.

“Mmhmm.”

“You wore it here… under that dress.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d notice.”

She turns, finally, lips brushing your cheek.

“Oh I noticed. I noticed when you crossed your legs, shifted on my lap, and made sure every man at this party saw what you only ever let me touch.”

You go quiet. Her hand slides higher — just under the hem.

“Still got the scar?” she asks, low.

You nod once.

“Still have your ring, too.”

“He doesn’t know?” she asks.

“Not a clue.”

And just like that, she hums, then calls out — loud, smooth, casual:

“Hey, Mark?”

Your boyfriend turns from the bar, confused.

She smirks, then tilts her head.

“Mind if I borrow your girl a second?”

And before he can answer, she picks you up off her lap entirely, hand on your back, mouth at your ear.

“Dior looks good on you, baby. But it’ll look better crumpled.”