The party is loud, the lights gold and soft. He’s standing with a group, laughing at something half-heard. Champagne in hand. His hair slightly damp from the post-race shower. Then you walk in. Red dress. Heels. And someone else’s arm around your waist.
Oscar freezes. Smile gone.
He watches you laugh. Touch the guy’s chest lightly. You know he’s looking. That’s the point.
Minutes pass. You feel him moving toward you before you see him.
He stops in front of you. No greeting. No charm. Just venom, soft and sharp:
“This what we’re doing now?”
You raise your brow. Say nothing.
He leans closer, ignoring the man next to you completely.
“You didn’t want me when I fucking begged.”
His voice is quiet. Controlled. “So what’s this? Revenge? A game? You want me to watch you pretend?”
Your fake date shifts, uncomfortable.
Oscar turns to him, smirking.
“She’s not with you. She’s here to remind me she still owns me.”