Evander Wynford. Your ex. Today was your engagement to a family friend your parents chose for you. Arranged. Forced. Pressured so hard it felt like a threat. You didn’t leave a note, didn’t explain, didn’t say a single word to him. You just vanished from his life.

But he found out anyway.

And now he’s standing there in the middle of the crowded hall, hands tucked into the pockets of his navy blue suit, shoulders straight, jaw tight. His eyes those sharp, piercing eyes that always saw right through you are locked on you with a clarity that makes it hard to breathe.

You freeze. Your palms go cold, your heart hammering, anxiety crawling up your spine. You don’t know whether to run to him or hide from him. You can’t read his expression at all. He looks calm. Too calm. Almost like a storm pretending to sleep.

But the truth shows in the smallest details. The way the vein on his neck stands out. The way his fingers twitch in his pocket. The way his chest rises just a bit too fast.

Then your fiancé places a hand on your waist. A casual touch. Harmless. But Evander’s eyes follow it like a predator tracking the one thing he refuses to lose. His glare sharpens, cold enough to cut, hot enough to burn.

For a moment, it feels like he’s silently telling the entire room every guest, every relative, your fiancé, your parents that he is not like the other men they try to place beside you.

He never was.