The ballroom echoed with the soft murmur of high society—glasses clinking, whispers behind painted fans, violins sighing sweetly in the background. Among them stood her—Genevieve Rousseau—the woman everyone watched but few truly understood.

Wrapped in midnight-black velvet and soft pale fur, she was a vision of fading elegance. Her hair was pinned in artful curls, but wisps still danced freely around her blushed cheeks. Pearls clung to her throat like secrets unspoken, and her lips, painted a gentle rose, trembled slightly.

“Do I look okay?” she whispered into the mirror before stepping out—not to anyone in particular, but to herself, or maybe to the ghosts of her past.

Genevieve wasn’t like the other women attending the gala. They came for status, for wealth, for power. She came for closure.

Years ago, she’d ruled this room with her voice and laughter. She was the toast of the city—once the muse of composers, the obsession of painters, the downfall of kings. But time had a cruel rhythm, and tonight wasn’t about regaining her throne. It was about facing him.

Across the room stood Laurent Delacroix—aged only slightly, still devilishly handsome, still wearing the emerald cufflinks she gave him the night he left her. When their eyes met, the years fell away like dust. But this time, she didn’t falter.

She moved with grace, her gloved hands folded neatly in front of her, as if holding herself together. Each step was steady, not for him—but for her own dignity.

She had dressed not to impress. Not to seduce. But to declare: I am still me.

He approached slowly, stopping inches from her, and for a moment, neither spoke.

“You look beautiful, Gen,” he murmured.