The gallery event was curated perfection.
Hosted by one of Zara's luxury branding clients, it was a blend of fine wine, whispered praise, and walls lined with modern art that dared you to admit you didn't get it. Zara moved through the space like she belonged in a frame herself—sleek black dress, a diamond pin at her collarbone, and a gaze that skimmed over the crowd like light off glass.
She wasn't expecting Dylan. And certainly not his fiancée.
But she noticed Celeste the moment she entered.
Not because she made a scene—Celeste knew better. But because she made eye contact.
Unbroken.
Unapologetic.
It wasn't long before Zara found herself alone by a sculpture of a broken violin—some tortured metaphor, no doubt—when Celeste appeared beside her, dressed in powder blue, a champagne flute in hand, and a smile that could cut through silk.
"You don't really seem like the 'creative installation' type," Celeste said lightly.
Zara didn't look at her. "Neither do you."
Celeste sipped her drink. "You're right. I hate all of this. Pretentious as hell. But it gets people talking—and in business, that's what matters."
Zara finally turned her head, one brow lifting. "Was there a reason you followed me to a sculpture of a dying symphony, or is this just small talk with sharp edges?"
Celeste laughed softly. "Alright then. No theatrics."
She set her glass down.
"I came to say something to you, woman to woman."
Zara gave the faintest nod. "Say it quickly. I bore easily."
Celeste stepped closer, voice quiet but firm. "I don't care how long you were married to Dylan. I don't care how tragic or complicated it was. But if you still have feelings for him—bury them."
Zara's face didn't shift. Not even a blink.
Celeste went on. "Because you had your chance. And you walked away when he needed you the most. You left without a word. You broke him."
Zara tilted her head, slowly. "You're very passionate for someone so unsure."
Celeste flinched, barely. "I'm not unsure."
Zara took a step forward now, her voice satin-smooth. "Funny. Because you're not telling me to back off from your man. You're telling me not to fall for mine. Sounds like a confession."
"I'm not here to play word games," Celeste snapped.
"No," Zara said softly. "You're here because you're afraid he didn't tell you the truth about us."
That landed.
Celeste's throat moved as she swallowed.
Zara leaned in just slightly, her gaze bored but brutal. "And now you're wondering… what else he lied about."
She stepped away with the grace of a queen leaving a peasant in the dust, not looking back once.
Celeste stood frozen, pulse racing beneath her diamonds.
Suddenly, she wasn't sure if Zara had ever left Dylan at all.
\---
Dylan arrived at the gallery fifteen minutes late, fresh from a boardroom fire drill that had left him with a headache and a tie askew. He hated these events—empty chatter, overpriced wine, and a constant pressure to nod at art like he understood it.
Still, he was here.
Zara was here.
That had a strange gravitational pull.
He scanned the crowd quickly, his eyes finding her without effort.
She stood across the room near a sculpted light fixture that probably cost more than his first car, her posture flawless, her profile sharp. She wasn't alone, though. A man stood close—too close, Dylan thought—laughing at something Zara hadn't even smiled at.
His jaw tensed.
He started to move in that direction when someone stepped into his path.
Celeste.
"There you are," she said sweetly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "I was wondering if you'd come."
He blinked, caught off guard. "I didn't know you'd be here."
"I tagged along," she replied smoothly, looping her arm through his. "Seems everyone in your business orbit is orbiting Zara these days."
He forced a polite smile. "She's good at what she does."
Celeste's fingers curled slightly around his arm. "Yeah. Among other things."
There was something different in her tone. Possessive. Sharp-edged.
Dylan turned to face her fully. "Is something wrong?"
"Wrong?" Celeste gave a soft, airy laugh. "Not at all. Just... clarifying."
"Clarifying what?"
But Celeste's attention had already drifted past him. Her smile faded.
Dylan turned.
Zara was walking toward them—alone now, a fresh glass of red wine in hand, the man from before vanished like vapor. She didn't look hurried or dramatic. Just calm. Distant. Unbothered.
She nodded once at Dylan as she passed.
And said nothing.
Not a word.
But Dylan felt it anyway—like the air had shifted the second she moved through it. Like someone had rewound the clock and every moment since their last true conversation had been a slow build toward something they could no longer ignore.
Celeste tugged on his arm slightly. "We should leave soon."
He blinked. "We just got here."
"I've had my fill," she murmured, not looking at him. "Of art. And ghosts."
Dylan hesitated. For the first time in months, he didn't feel like he belonged at Celeste's side. Not here. Not now.
His eyes drifted once more to Zara, who was now deep in conversation with a curator, her expression unreadable.
He didn't know what had happened between the two women.
But he knew something had.
And for the first time in years, Dylan felt like the past was no longer behind him.
It was standing right in front of him… wearing a black dress and a look that said: I don't need you—but you still don't understand me.
\---
The gallery had thinned out. Only murmurs and soft laughter floated in the distance as guests trickled toward the valet.
Zara remained behind, standing on a balcony just off the east wing of the venue, her fingers loosely curled around her wineglass. The city shimmered below, cold and glittering. She looked like she was carved into the skyline—unreachable.
Dylan found her there, alone.
He hesitated in the doorway.
She didn't turn around. "If you're going to say thank you for not embarrassing your fiancée, don't bother."
Dylan stepped forward. "What did she say to you?"
Zara's lip twitched—not quite a smile. "You're assuming she said something."
"She doesn't glare at people for sport."
"She does everything for sport, Dylan. Including clinging."
He ignored the bait. "What did she say?"
Zara finally turned, her eyes sharp in the silver light. "She told me not to fall for you. That you were broken when I left. That you needed me and I... abandoned you."
A pause. Dylan swallowed.
"She said that?" he asked, his voice low.
"She did," Zara replied coolly. "And you let her believe it."
Dylan's shoulders stiffened. "I never told her anything that wasn't true."
Zara's laugh was soft—but laced with something bitter. "You're such a liar."
He blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You let her believe I was the villain. That I left you shattered and heartbroken. That I walked out for no reason, like a ghost with no guilt." She took a step forward now, voice tightening. "You didn't tell her how you treated me. How you looked at me like I was a burden in your bed. How you came home drunk and said I disgusted you."
"Zara—"
"You want the truth? You want the real reason I left?" Her voice cracked, just barely. "Because staying with someone who hated the sight of me was worse than being alone. Because I stood in front of a man I loved, and he made me feel like I was something he had to survive."
Dylan opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
So she delivered the final blow.
"And next time your fiancée wants to play guard dog, do me a favor—taim your dog before she starts barking at lions."
Silence.
Dylan stared at her, throat working. "I never stopped loving you," he said quietly.
Zara held his gaze, unwavering. "Then you have a twisted way of showing it."
She turned back to the city, back to the wind, back to the calm silence she'd built brick by brick.
"Go home, Dylan," she said so
ftly. "You don't get to rewrite history just because you finally learned how to regret it."
He stood there a moment longer, helpless.
Then he walked away.
And Zara didn't watch him go.