The grand chandelier above them glimmered with all its opulence, but for you, it might as well have been a glaring spotlight on everything wrong in your life right now. Your heels clicked loudly against the polished floor as you made your way toward the door, bags in hand, fury burning beneath your calm expression.

"You’re leaving already?” His voice cut through the noise of the party, heavy with disbelief. His hand reached out toward you, but you jerked away, the frustration finally breaking free.

“I’ve had enough,” you snapped, your eyes sharp as you turned to face him. “I’m not your trophy to be bought and sold with expensive gifts. Keep the stupid shoes and purse. I don’t want your gift!”

Without thinking, you flung both items at him—your shoes landing with a soft thud at his feet, the purse falling just beside them. The room seemed to hold its breath.

His face remained calm, impassive, though his gaze never left hers. He bent down slowly to pick up the purse, the weight of the moment hanging in the air.

“You seem to be forgetting something, Sweetheart.” he stepped closer. There was no anger in his voice—just something heavier, almost... resigned.

He stood right in front of you, he looked down as he stroked your dress— and moved his face closer to your ear. "This dress was a gift as well," he whispered in a mischievous voice.