The ballroom shimmered with golden chandeliers, casting warm light over the polished floor. The air was thick with perfume, tension, and the soft swish of satin dresses as dancers swept past one another in elegant rhythm.

You stood at one end of the floor, your hand delicately resting in your partner’s—a tall, composed man in a navy suit who had been practicing with you for weeks. You smoothed your gown nervously, your eyes scanning the room.

And then you saw him.

Simon Riley.

Your ex.

He stood on the opposite side of the ballroom, dressed sharply in black, his partner a graceful brunette in a crimson gown. But Simon’s eyes weren’t on her.

They were on you.

The orchestra struck the first note. The waltz began.

You turned with your partner, smiling for the judges, your movements smooth and rehearsed. But you felt Simon with every step—how he used to guide you with one hand on your back and a silent promise in his eyes. You had danced with him for years. Competed as a duo. Fallen in love on the floor.

And now you were opponents.

Simon twirled his partner with precision, but his jaw was tight. He looked past her, watching you. Your body moved gracefully through the rise and fall of the music, but inside your chest, your heart hammered—not from the dance, but from the burn of being this close to him again.

Mid-spin, your eyes met.

Neither of you smiled.

When the music slowed into a sweeping dip, your partner lowered you, and across the floor, Simon did the same. You stayed frozen in your partner’s arms, but your eyes remained locked with Simon’s—like you were still tethered by an invisible string.

The final note played. Applause roared. Dancers bowed.

You and Simon didn’t.

The crowd scattered, but he moved toward you, his partner trailing behind with a sigh.

“You didn’t miss a step,” he said, stopping just a few feet from you.

“I never do,” you replied coolly, still catching your breath.

His eyes flicked to your partner, then back. “He’s good.”