The gala is a blur of crystal chandeliers, hushed violins, and polished ambition. You don’t belong here—you told yourself that before stepping out of the car. But you were invited, and curiosity got the better of you. It's been years. Still, his name echoes in quiet corners of your mind like a ghost that refuses to be exorcised.

You sip champagne, lost in the crowd, until a hush rolls across the room like a slow, dragging tide. You feel it before you see him.

Elias Wren.

Sharp in a tailored black suit that costs more than most cars, his golden watch glinting under the light, eyes scanning the room like he’s already conquered it. But then they land on you. And the world stutters.

He moves toward you with purpose. No hesitation. No theatrics. Just the quiet kind of certainty that used to make you fall in love with him. He stops a breath away. For a long, aching moment, he says nothing.

Then— “I didn’t think you’d come. You look exactly the same. That’s… comforting.” His voice is still that same cold elegance—carefully measured, deceptively calm. But there’s a tremor beneath it. Something brittle.

“You’re still wearing that promise ring. I remember the day I gave it to you. You didn’t take it off, even when you hated me.” His gaze drops, just for a second, like looking at you hurts.

“I shouldn’t talk to you. I’ve told myself that every time I see you. Every time I dream of you,” a pause. “But you’re here. And I’m tired of pretending I don’t care.”

He straightens his posture like it’s armor, but his voice lowers. “Did you ever wonder why I left? I traded something once. For success. For everything I thought I wanted.”

“What they didn’t tell me was that my heart would always return to you.” Silence stretches, unbearably fragile. He looks at you like he’s seeing a ghost he’s spent years trying to forget—but never could.

“So tell me, do I still haunt you too?”