I hadn't been inside The Four Seasons Seattle in seven years. The last time, Ronin and I came for a firm dinner. I wore a blue dress he picked out. He held my hand under the table.
Tonight I walked in on Tobias Warren's arm, and the ballroom went quiet.
Not silent. Just that particular hush that comes when people recognize power and aren't sure yet if they should bow or run. The chandeliers threw soft gold light across marble floors. Women in gowns clustered near the champagne bar. Men in tuxedos stood by the tall windows overlooking Elliott Bay. I felt their eyes track us as we moved through the crowd.
Tobias's hand rested lightly on my lower back. He didn't look at anyone. He never did at these things. But I felt the weight of his presence beside me like a shield I didn't know I needed until I had it.
My gown was Valentino. Custom. Deep emerald silk that moved like water when I walked. The back was cut low enough that the top edge of my scars showed if you knew where to look. I used to hide them. Tonight I didn't.
I scanned the room the way you do when you're searching for something you hope isn't there.
Then I saw him.
Ronin Allen stood near the champagne bar in a black tuxedo that probably cost three months of what he used to make as a junior associate. His hair was shorter now. Sharper. He looked successful. Polished. Like a man who had everything.
And beside him, her hand threaded possessively through his arm, was Fallon Herrera.
She wore white. Of course she did. A delicate lace gown that made her look like she was already walking down the aisle. Her dark hair fell in soft waves over one shoulder. She was laughing at something a woman beside her said, but her eyes—her eyes were scanning the room just like mine had been.
When our gazes met, she stopped laughing.
Ronin turned to see what had caught her attention.
His face went pale.
I didn't move. Neither did he. The air between us felt like glass about to shatter.
Tobias's hand pressed gently against my back. Not pulling me away. Just reminding me he was there.
"Do you want to leave?" he asked quietly. His voice was calm. Even. The same voice he used when he told a board of directors their project was being canceled.
I shook my head. "No."
"Good," he said. "Neither do I."
We moved toward the bar. Not toward them. Just in that general direction. Tobias ordered me a glass of champagne I wouldn't drink and a scotch he would. I stood beside him and felt Ronin's stare like a hand on my throat.
I turned slightly. Met his eyes. Let him see that I saw him.
Then I looked away.
It was Fallon who flinched.
The speeches started twenty minutes later. Some tech CEO talking about innovation and philanthropy. I didn't listen. I stood beside Tobias and felt my pulse beat too fast in my wrists.
When the applause came, people started moving again. Mixing. Talking. I saw Ronin break away from Fallon and start toward me.
Tobias saw it too. His hand slid from my back to my waist. Not possessive. Protective.
"I can handle this," I said softly.
He looked at me for a long moment. Then he nodded. "I'll be ten feet away."
Ronin reached me just as Tobias stepped back. Not far. Just far enough to give me space. I saw him move to the edge of the terrace doors, his scotch in hand, his eyes never leaving Ronin's back.
Ronin stopped two feet in front of me. Up close, I could see the tightness in his jaw. The whiteness around his knuckles where he gripped his champagne flute.
"Maeve," he said. His voice was low. Angry. "What the hell are you doing here?"
I didn't answer right away. I looked at him the way you look at someone you used to know a long time ago. Someone you're trying to remember.
"I'm attending a charity gala," I said finally. "Same as you."
"You're supposed to be dead."
The words came out sharp. Accusing. Like I had done something wrong by surviving.
I felt something cold settle in my chest. "I'm not."
"You faked it." His voice rose slightly. People nearby glanced over. "You faked your death to—what? Make me feel guilty? Punish me?"
Behind him, Fallon drifted closer. Her eyes were wide. Wet. She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth like she was barely holding herself together.
"I always knew," she whispered. Her voice shook. "I always knew you'd come back to torment us."
I looked at her. Really looked. At the practiced tears. The delicate tremble. The way she leaned into Ronin like she needed him to stand.
I used to believe that act.
"We're getting married next month," Ronin said. His voice was hard now. Defiant. "You showing up here with some billionaire doesn't change that. It just proves you're still jealous. Still bitter."
I let the words sit in the air between us.
Then I smiled.
It wasn't a kind smile.
"You flatter yourself, Ronin," I said quietly. "I didn't fake my death for you. I simply stopped wasting my life on someone who wasn't worth it."
I turned and walked away.
Tobias's hand settled on the small of my back again. Warm. Steady. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to.
But as we walked past Ronin, Tobias met his gaze over my shoulder.
I didn't see his expression. But I felt Ronin go very, very still behind us.
We left the gala twenty minutes later. The car ride back to our villa in Medina was quiet. Tobias didn't ask if I was okay. He knew better.
When we got home, I walked straight to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Puget Sound. The water was black under the night sky. The city lights glittered across the bay like scattered diamonds.
I stood there holding a glass of champagne I didn't remember picking up.
Tobias came to stand beside me. Our shoulders touched.
"My security team will monitor their movements going forward," he said quietly.
I nodded.
"I didn't expect it to feel like that," I said. My voice came out smaller than I wanted. "Seeing them."
Tobias took the champagne glass from my hand and set it on the side table. Then he took my hand in his.
"It won't feel like that forever," he said.
I looked at him. At the man who spent five years putting me back together. Who never once asked me to be anything other than what I was.
I believed him.
