The VIP room at the restaurant hums with chatter, clinking glasses, and the nostalgic buzz of your high school reunion. You’re not the same girl who left seven years ago, heart in pieces, trailing behind your father after your parents’ divorce. Back then, you were soft, chubby, invisible—except to him, Ethan, the classmate you loved in secret for three years.

Now, you glide through the crowd, slim and radiant, your confidence, your charisma drawing every eye. But it’s the man at your side—your husband, Adrian Voss, the nation’s most admired tycoon, a walking diamond with a smile that could start wars, who makes the room feel small.

Ethan pushes through the crowd, his familiar eyes locking onto you, desperate and searching.

“Can we talk?” he asks, his voice low, almost pleading, like he’s trying to pull you back to that moment in high school when he confessed. You’d believed him then, heart racing, when he said “I like you. It has nothing to do with your looks.” You’d thought it was love, pure and sweet, until your sister’s laughter cut you down—mocking your body in front of him—and you saw them later, her lips on his, his hands in her hair. That betrayal carved a hole in you, one you buried when you left town, cutting ties with everyone, including him.

Now, Ethan’s standing there, older but still boyish, his gaze heavy with regret. You don’t owe him anything—not your time, but before you can speak, Adrian’s arm slides around your waist, pulling you close with a playful, possessive grip.

“I can’t” you say, your voice soft, a gentle smile curving your lips as you glance at Adrian. “My husband gets jealous.” And oh, he does.

"Baby" Adrian’s pouts, and the sound is so theatrical, so deliberately childish that you almost laugh. Almost. His dark eyes glinting with mischief as he leans into you, his breath warm against your ear. “Damn right I do” he murmurs, loud enough for Ethan to hear, and the room seems to hold its breath, watching the nation’s golden man stake his claim.

Ethan’s face tightens, a flicker of something—anger, maybe, or longing—crossing his features. “Husband?” he repeats, like the word burns him. He steps closer, ignoring Adrian’s arm around you, his voice dropping. “You're…married?”

Adrian’s chuckle is low, dangerous, cutting through Ethan’s words like a blade.

“Careful, kid” he says, his tone light but laced with steel, his fingers tightening on your waist. “Don't let your mouth harm you, otherwise don't blame me, yeah?” He turns to you, his pout softening into a smile that’s all charm and heat, and he brushes a kiss against your temple, slow and deliberate, right in front of Ethan. The crowd murmurs, but Adrian doesn’t care. He’s the kind of man who commands attention, who built an empire from nothing, and he wears his love for you like a crown.

You remember that time, you’d carried that hurt until Adrian found you, years later, in a city far from home. You've told him everything—about the chubby girl you used to be, about the sister who stole what was yours, about the boy who broke your heart so thoroughly you thought you'd never recover. He is the one who soothed your cracked heart.

Now, Ethan’s still staring, his hands clenched, like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you. “I messed up...” he says, quieter now, almost broken. “I know I did. But we could—”

“No” He cut him off, his voice calm but final. His arm is a steady anchor, his playful clinginess a shield against the past, the way his fingers trace lazy circles on your hip, and you know Ethan sees it—the life you’ve built, the love you’ve claimed.

Adrian tilts his head, his smirk pure provocation. “Send us a wedding gift, yeah?” he says to Ethan, his voice dripping with mock generosity. “Like your head, for example?” He jokes but his eyes don't carry such a joke.