I splashed cold water on my face and stared at my reflection. My skin was ashen, my eyes rimmed with red—the undeniable proof of my tears.

I had hoped to slip away unnoticed, but I never expected to run into Julian and his friends right outside the restroom.

They all stopped, their smirks telling me they knew I’d overheard. And didn't care.

"Elara, what are you doing here? Didn't I tell you to rest at home?" Julian's voice was gentle as always as he draped his overcoat over my shoulders.

His familiar scent of cedar filled my lungs, and a fresh wave of grief hit me.

But I forced a smile. "I just needed some air."

Someone, clearly relishing the drama, suggested I join Scarlett's welcome party that evening.

Julian studied me, his expression unreadable, before he nodded slowly.

"Scarlett will probably be... very surprised to see you."

A bitter smile touched my lips. As a pawn, I had no right to refuse.

As night fell, Scarlett strode into the private room on a pair of stilettos, met by a chorus of cheers.

She looked more mature than in her photos, a blush-pink bodycon dress clinging to her exquisite figure.

Almost instantly, I heard the sharp intake of breath from the man beside me.

"You're the one Julian is planning to marry?"

The woman sized me up, her eyes glinting with open disdain.

Sensing her hostility, I chose silence.

She slid in beside Julian, her thigh deliberately brushing against his suit trousers.

When you love someone, you're attuned to their every shift—and I realized with a pang of sorrow that the ever-proud Julian was nervous.

Julian's voice was hoarse, his fists clenched at his sides.

"You're getting bolder. It's fall, and you're in a skirt that short? Aren't you cold?"

As he spoke, he draped his own suit jacket over her bare legs.

It made me, also in a short skirt, feel like a complete joke.

Like a triumphant princess, Scarlett smirked at me. "Julian and I have known each other for over ten years. He never laid a hand on me because he respected me too much, but we've slept in the same bed more times than I can count. What about you? How many times have you slept with him? Is he any good?"

A ripple of low snickers went through the group.

Humiliation burned in my cheeks, but when I saw the tips of Julian's ears turn red, a defiant spark ignited within me.

Swallowing the acid that rose in my throat, I forced a calm I didn't feel.

"Why don't you try him and find out?"

Scarlett froze for a second before a slow, knowing smile curved her lips. "Me? But he's your fiancé."

"It's fine. I don't mind. He probably doesn't either."

A taut silence descended on the room, thick with unspoken tension.

The gentle warmth in Julian's eyes had vanished, replaced by shame and then a flicker of warning—of impatience.

"Elara," he hissed, "I didn't bring you here to make a fool out of me."

A lump of ice formed in my throat, my heart constricting as if caught in a vise.

In the past, whenever I'd blundered at these gatherings, he would gently defuse the situation. Later, when I’d ask if I’d embarrassed him, he'd just smile, a fond look in his eyes, and tell me I never had to feel insecure with him around.

But that promise, it seemed, didn't apply when his one true love was in the room.

I said nothing.

Probably finding my silence boring, Scarlett started clamoring for a drinking game. When Julian lost a round, my hand moved instinctively to take his glass.

Scarlett's voice was a purr. "Julian, it's my first day back. Indulge me, won't you? Drink the rest of my glass."

She swirled the whiskey in her hand, a bold red lipstick print staining the rim.

Julian never touched cheap whiskey—said it gave him headaches. I always drank for him, feeling a pang of protectiveness.

I never expected him to press my hand down, his gaze cold. "I'll do it."

"But you..."

The next second, he tilted his head back and drained his own glass. Then he reached for Scarlett's, his throat working as he knocked it back, his lips deliberately pressing against her lipstick stain.

"If it's from Scarlett, I'd drink poison."

The emotion churning in his eyes was raw and overwhelming.

My fingernails dug into my palms. "So this is what he's like when he truly loves someone," I thought, a bitter laugh rising in my chest. He'd give up his life for her.

As the atmosphere grew rowdier, someone suddenly held up their phone with a gasp.

"Whoa, isn't that the elusive Don Moretti? Scarlett, when did you get so chummy with him?"

A candid photo glowed on the screen. On the steps of a private jet, she was blushing, sharing an intimate moment with a devastatingly handsome man who was smiling down at her.

I froze. The man in the picture was breathtaking, radiating power. Three years ago, he had leveled that same scrutinizing gaze at me. Back then, I had felt nothing but terror and had escaped right under his nose.

And tomorrow, I was going to walk right back to him.