The charity gala was black-tie. My gallery was co-hosting with two other venues in the city. I wore a simple black dress and stood near the back wall, watching donors circulate through the exhibition space.
I saw Quentin the moment he entered.
He moved through the crowd like he owned it. Navy tuxedo. Perfect hair. He stopped at the bar, ordered something clear in a glass, and turned to scan the room.
He found me in under ten seconds.
I didn't move. I watched him cross the floor toward me, weaving between clusters of guests, his eyes locked on mine the entire time.
He stopped three feet away. Close enough that I could smell his cologne. The same one he'd worn during our marriage.
"Liv," he said. Warm. Familiar. "I didn't know you'd be here."
"I work here."
"Right. Of course." He smiled. "It's a beautiful show. You always had an eye for this."
I said nothing.
He took a sip of his drink. "I've been thinking. About us. About how things ended. I think—"
"Stop."
He blinked. "I just want to—"
"There is no version of this where you get what you want," I said. My voice was quiet. Controlled. "Stop."
Something flickered across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or confusion. Like he'd expected the woman he remembered and found someone else standing in her place.
"Liv, I'm trying to have a conversation."
"No. You're trying to rewrite history. I'm not interested."
I walked away. I didn't look back. I moved through the crowd, stopped at the coat check, collected my jacket, and left through the side exit.
Outside, the air was cool. I stood on the sidewalk and let my pulse settle.
He didn't follow me. That was something.
But I knew the look in his eyes. He wasn't hearing no. He was hearing not yet.
---
The next afternoon, I picked up Kole from school. Three-fifteen. The usual time.
I parked in the pickup lane and waited. Kids poured out of the building in waves, backpacks bouncing, voices high and bright.
Kole came out near the end, talking to a friend. He saw my car and waved. I waved back.
Then I saw him.
Quentin stood across the street. Not moving. Just standing there, hands in his pockets, watching.
I went very still.
Kole climbed into the backseat and tossed his backpack on the floor. "Can we get ice cream?"
"Maybe," I said. My voice was steady. "Buckle up."
I pulled out of the lane slowly. I didn't look at Quentin. I didn't need to. I could feel his eyes on the car the entire time.
I drove two blocks, then pulled over. I opened the notes app on my phone and typed: Tuesday, 3:15 PM. Across from school entrance. Standing. Watching.
I saved it and drove home.
---
Wednesday. Three-fifteen again.
Quentin was there. Same spot. Same posture.
I added it to the notes: Wednesday, 3:15 PM. Same location.
---
Thursday.
He was there again.
This time I didn't wait. I walked into the school office before pickup started.
The receptionist looked up. "Ms. Edwards. Everything okay?"
"I need to speak to the principal."
Five minutes later, I sat across from Principal Morris. She was a practical woman in her fifties with sharp eyes and no patience for nonsense.
"There's a man," I said. "He's been standing across the street during pickup for the last three days. He hasn't approached my son. But he's watching."
"Do you know him?"
"Yes."
"Is he a threat?"
I thought about that. About the packages. The letters. The custody inquiry sitting in my desk drawer.
"I don't know yet," I said. "But I want it documented. If he tries to approach Kole, I want the staff to know he's not authorized."
She nodded and wrote something down. "We'll alert the front desk and the afternoon monitors. If he appears again, we'll call you immediately."
"Thank you."
I left the office and picked up Kole. Quentin wasn't there that afternoon.
But I knew he'd be back.
---
That night, Camilla Torres stood in Quentin's study and stared at the receipts scattered across his desk.
Returned gifts. All of them. White roses. Gold bracelet. First-edition book.
Every single one sent back.
She opened the top drawer. A letter from his attorney. Custody inquiry. Paternity establishment.
She opened his laptop. The browser history was still there. He hadn't even bothered to clear it.
Liv Edwards gallery schedule. Liv Edwards Upper East Side address. Liv Edwards son school district.
Camilla's hands shook.
She heard footsteps in the hallway. Quentin walked in, loosening his tie.
He stopped when he saw her standing at his desk.
"What are you doing?"
She turned slowly. "What am I doing? What are you doing?"
He didn't answer.
"You're obsessed with her," Camilla said. Her voice was rising. "You're stalking her. You're trying to take her son."
"That's my son."
"You don't know that!"
"I know the timeline," Quentin said coldly. "I know what I saw."
Camilla laughed. It was a sharp, ugly sound. "You're delusional. You're throwing everything away for a woman who doesn't want you and a child that isn't yours."
"Get out of my office."
"No."
Quentin walked toward her. He picked up the receipts and the letter and shoved them back into the drawer. "This doesn't concern you."
"I'm your wife!"
"You were never what I wanted," he said. His voice was flat. Final. "You were what was available."
The words landed like a slap.
Camilla stared at him. Her face went white, then red.
She turned and walked out of the study. She didn't slam the door. She closed it very carefully.
She stood in the hallway for a long moment. Her hands were still shaking.
Then something inside her went very quiet. Very cold.
If Quentin wouldn't stop chasing Liv Edwards, then Camilla would eliminate the problem herself.
