The next morning came wrapped in glass and silence.
Zara arrived at the office earlier than usual. Her stiletto heels clicked a clean, ruthless rhythm down the polished hallway of Hartley Studios' executive wing. She didn't need caffeine—control was her fuel.
Her assistant, Tonia, fell in step beside her, tablet in hand. "Your first briefing is at nine. Private meeting. Just you and Mr. Reid. It's to finalize the revised strategy points and brand synergy."
Zara didn't slow her pace. "Put the talking points on the screen. Don't print."
"Yes, ma'am."
She stepped into the elevator, doors closing like a vault behind her. Alone, she adjusted the cuffs of her blouse and looked at her reflection in the steel walls. Impenetrable. Composed. Not a single line out of place.
But in her mind?
A flash of Celeste's arm looped tightly through Dylan's.
The sharp, fake smile on her face.
The guilt tightening Dylan's jaw.
The way he hadn't looked at her—not truly—not once.
Zara exhaled softly. She hadn't expected anything different. But still, the quiet sting had lingered. Not because he had a fiancée, but because during their entire marriage, he'd never once invited her to a single business gala. She had stood on the sidelines, a secret in a suit. Now, Celeste paraded around on his arm like a trophy wife in rehearsal.
Pathetic, she thought. She doesn't even know she's trying to one-up someone who stopped playing the game years ago.
By the time she entered the glass conference room on the 24th floor, Zara was once again carved from elegance and ice.
Dylan was already there.
Standing by the massive screen, flipping through slides like it might distract him from the fact that he was about to be trapped in a room with his estranged wife—with no fiancée to wrap around his arm this time.
"Good morning," he said without looking up.
Zara took her seat without responding. She crossed her legs, glanced at the screen, then at him.
"You're late," she noted, even though he wasn't.
Dylan finally looked at her, lips twitching. "Traffic."
"Then next time, leave earlier."
Silence stretched like glass between them.
Dylan clicked to the next slide. "I've reviewed the joint campaign points. I have notes."
"I'm sure you do," Zara replied coolly. "Let's hear them."
For the next few minutes, it was all business. Swift exchanges. Polished terms. Muted tension bleeding from every line of dialogue. He spoke with clipped efficiency; she responded with surgical calm.
But beneath it all, the unspoken history buzzed like static behind the screen.
Finally, Dylan stopped talking. He turned from the slides and looked directly at her.
"We're going to have to speak, Zara. Really speak. Eventually."
She didn't blink. "This is a business partnership, Mr. Reid. Not couples therapy."
He leaned forward slightly. "You left without a word."
"And yet here you are. Speaking anyway."
Another silence. This one hotter. Thicker.
Zara stood. "Unless your notes contain something beyond emotional nostalgia, I suggest we wrap up. I have real work to do."
She gathered her tablet and walked toward the door.
Dylan's voice stopped her.
"Do you still wear the ring?"
Zara froze for half a second.
Then turned back, her face unreadable. "Ask your fiancée."
And with that, she walked out—heels echoing like a closing verdict.
***
The door to Zara's office whispered shut behind her with a soft click.
She crossed the room like a queen returning to her throne, heels silent against the thick Persian rug. No hesitation. No slack in her spine. But the moment she reached her desk, she paused—just long enough for the weight of memory to settle in the room with her.
The early sunlight pooled against the glass walls, making her office glow like a museum case—everything sharp, beautiful, untouchable.
She sank into her chair.
For a moment, her fingers hovered above her keyboard. Then, with a breath as soft as silk unraveling, she opened the drawer to her right.
Inside, nestled beneath perfectly aligned fountain pens and a leather-bound notebook, was a small velvet box.
The kind reserved for only two things: sentimentality or pain.
Zara picked it up.
She didn't open it right away. Just stared at it. Her thumb grazed the edge of the lid, like she was unsure whether to disturb the ghost inside.
But then, with a flick of her hand—cool, efficient—the box opened.
And there it was.
The wedding ring.
A simple platinum band. No inscription. No flourish. It wasn't romantic. It was practical. Meant to last, like the vows they exchanged in that cold civil room with no guests and too many secrets.
She hadn't looked at it in over two years.
And yet, here it was. Unchanged. Unbothered by time.
Unlike her.
Zara leaned back in her chair, the ring cradled in her palm. Her expression didn't shift. Not visibly. But there was something... a stillness. The kind of stillness that comes just before a storm decides to change direction.
"Do you still wear the ring?" Dylan's voice echoed faintly in her head.
She hadn't. Not since the night he came home drunk and told her she made his heart ache in sorrow. That night she had taken it off. Not in anger. Not in tears.
Just quietly. And packed it away.
Now, she turned it between her fingers, watching how the light caught on the metal—cold, silver, honest.
Zara snapped the box shut with a click. Not harshly. Just decisively.
She placed it back in the drawer and closed it.
She had empires to run. Contracts to sign. People to outmaneuver.
But for the briefest moment, she allowed herself one truth:
She had loved him. Once.
And that was exactly why she never would again.
***
Celeste tapped her French-manicured nail against her phone as she paced her apartment. Her morning latte sat untouched on the marble counter, rapidly cooling beside a vase of fresh lilies Dylan had sent two days ago.
He hadn't come home after the gala.
Said he had a meeting first thing.
With her, Celeste thought, jaw tightening.
She turned to the sleek tablet on the breakfast bar and opened the press release for the joint venture. Zara Hartley's name was everywhere—her quotes, her strategy, her vision. The woman practically oozed dominance through pixels.
Celeste exhaled through her nose. "You're not threatened," she told her reflection in the glass door. "You're just... observant."
But even she didn't believe it.
Something about the way Dylan had looked at Zara last night—it had struck her. Not love. Not even guilt. No, it was worse than that.
Recognition.
That quiet, wounded look people got when they saw someone they'd once called home. And for all her poise and frost, Zara hadn't dismissed Dylan like an ex.
She'd dismissed him like a liability.
Celeste grabbed her phone, thumb hovering over Dylan's name.
She didn't call.
Instead, she opened her messages and typed:
You're in early today. Meeting go well?
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Yeah. Just going over plans with Zara. Straightforward.
Celeste stared at the screen. A lie, wrapped in business jargon.
Straightforward? she thought. You were married to her. You once proposed to her with shaking hands and a heart too big for your chest. And now it's 'straightforward'?
She picked up her phone again and dialed her assistant.
"Rebecca? Hi. Can you pull Zara Hartley's company calendar for the week? Just the events she's hosting or attending. I need to know if we'll run into each other again professionally. Yes, all external meetings too."
There was a pause. "Is this... about the gala?"
"No," Celeste said smoothly. "This is about being prepared. That's all."
After hanging up, she stood still in the center of her apartment. The city sprawled out beneath her, golden and loud—but she couldn't hear any of it.
Her thoughts were too full of things she'd never had to ask herself before.
What if Dylan wasn't over her?
What if he never had been?
And worse—what if Zara didn't even want him back, but still had the power to break them anyway?
Celeste walked to the mirror, straightened her robe, and studied herself.
Beautiful. Brilliant. Chosen.
She would not be replaced.
Not by a woman who vanished without a goodbye.
Not by someone who walked away from a man like Dylan and still somehow held the upper hand.
With calm resolve, she reached for her phone again.
If Zara wanted to play a quiet game, fine.
Celeste knew how to be loud in all the right places.