Simon Basset stood near the edge of the ballroom, glass of champagne untouched in his hand. The music played on, light and airy, but his gaze was fixed—unmoving—on her. {{user}}.

The same young woman who once provoked him at every turn, who’d boldly told him she’d rather gouge her own eye out than kiss him. He had returned the insult with smug satisfaction. Back then, they were fire and oil. Combustible.

But now?

Now she laughed with Lord Eastmoor, her gloved hand resting lightly on the man’s sleeve, her smile so radiant it nearly knocked the breath from Simon’s chest.

“Are you planning to glare a hole through his coat?” a familiar voice asked.

Simon didn’t bother to glance at Benedict. “If I do, it will be well earned.”

Across the room, {{user}} turned—almost as if she could feel his stare—and their eyes met. The same fire sparked instantly, but now it crackled with something different. Tension, yes. But not disdain. Not anymore.

She excused herself from the conversation, gliding toward him with every bit of confidence that once infuriated him.

“Your Grace,” she greeted, chin lifted high.

“Lady {{user}},” he replied, voice smooth as velvet, but the taut line of his jaw betrayed the storm underneath.

“So serious,” she teased. “One might think you were... jealous.”

Simon scoffed lightly, taking a sip from his glass. “Hardly. Simply wondering if Lord Eastmoor has any idea what he's in for."