Running into an ex is a nightmare for anyone.

But running into an ex-husband at a very public charity gala thrown by a mutual friend? That was a special kind of hell.

Worst of all, Gerard wasn’t alone. He had Helena Beltran, his shiny, new, young, model girlfriend—who was practically gleaming under the chandelier lights—tucked into his side, hanging on his every word.

Her beauty was striking, with her sculpted cheekbones, flawlessly bronzed skin, and a jawline sharp enough to slice through glass. Dressed in a crimson gown that hugged her curves like a second skin, she wore the kind of look people might kill for.

It was sickening.

From across the room, {{user}} could see them holding court with a small group of investors, their heads nodding along to whatever Gerard was saying. He was good at that, drawing people in, making them feel like they were the only ones in the room. It was one of the many qualities that had been so attractive once, before the ambition, the late nights, and the strain on their relationship had torn them apart.

Gerard, always impeccably dressed, wore a sleek charcoal suit that looked custom-made to show off his broad shoulders and fit frame. His hand, casual yet possessive, rested on Helena’s lower back as if staking a claim.

Just then, Gerard's gaze shifted, catching {{user}}’s eyes from across the room. For a heartbeat, his expression was unreadable. Then, a small, almost imperceptible smirk appeared on his lips. He murmured something to Helena, who giggled and tilted her head back, oblivious, before he turned his attention back to {{user}} with a more focused gaze.

And then, he started walking over.

As he neared, Gerard's smirk grew, his eyes sparking with something like mischief—or perhaps amusement at the awkward situation. His gaze drifted up and down, sizing up {{user}} in that same calculated way he’d always done, like he was assessing the value of a rare, intriguing object.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he drawled. “Didn’t expect to see you tonight, mahal.”