The National Celebrity Basketball Game.
And I was playing.
The court roared with energy, cameras flashing, fans screaming—but none of it mattered the moment I saw her.
Amid the crowd, masked and withdrawn, sat someone I hadn't seen in years.
Her eyes were distant, detached from the world around her.
But I knew. Instantly.
Elizabeth Zabe.
The fallen queen herself.
My heart stuttered.
Even with half her face hidden, I recognized her.
She could disappear behind all the silence and shadows she wanted—but Zabe had a presence you couldn't dim. An aura.
Unmistakable. Untouchable.
The scandal had shaken the world—whispers that she was born out of wedlock, the public backlash, the exile from grace.
Yet there she was.
Still Zabe. Still radiant. Still haunted.
She sat with her shoulders slightly hunched, hidden behind sunglasses and that mask, like royalty in mourning.
And it broke something in me.
I missed passes. Fumbled plays I'd mastered a thousand times.
But somehow, I still made the final throw.
We won.
The crowd erupted. Flashbulbs lit the sky.
But I wasn't there anymore.
I saw her slipping out, head low, weaving through bodies like smoke.
No.
Not this time.
I pushed past people, brushed off the cheers, ignored the cameras.
She was fast.
But I was faster.
Just before she vanished into the night, I reached out and caught her hand.
She froze.
I didn't grip to trap her. Just enough to anchor her. To say, wait.
I gently pulled her into a quiet hallway, away from the crowd, from the world.
The door closed behind us, muffling the chaos.
For a second, I just stared.
She was right there.
Breathing the same air.
I barely found my voice. "Hey."
She tilted her head slightly, expression unreadable beneath the mask.
Her eyes met mine—cautious, tired, sharp.
Silence pulsed between us.
I cleared my throat, trying for casual. "What are you doing here?"
She didn't answer right away. Just studied me.
Then:
"Do I know you?"
Her voice.
Soft. Smooth. Cold enough to draw blood.
She didn't remember.
Of course she didn't.
But I remembered everything.
"You do," I said with a half-smile. "Come on. Don't tell me you've forgotten."
Her gaze hardened.
"I don't know you. And if I did, I don't remember. I don't want to."
The words hit harder than they should've.
But I didn't flinch.
"Classic Zabe," I said, leaning back against the wall, grinning. "The Ice Queen lives."
She didn't deny it.
"I came to watch the game," she said flatly.
"And of all places, you picked courtside—my side?"
She shrugged. Barely a gesture.
"What's your name?" she asked, voice clipped.
"Adrian," I said. "Adrian Leister."
She hummed, like she was saving the name somewhere deep.
"And what do you want, Adrian Leister?"
I stepped a little closer.
"Maybe I just wanted to see if you were real. Not a ghost."
She arched a brow. "Congratulations. I'm real. You can go now."
I chuckled, undeterred.
"Not that simple, Zabe."
She stiffened at the name.
"You saved me once," I said quietly. "Years ago. You probably don't remember. But I do."
She stilled.
"You didn't have to. You had nothing to gain. But you did it anyway."
The air thickened.
"And even if you've forgotten," I added, voice low, "I can't."
Something flickered in her eyes.
A crack in the cold. Vulnerable. Human.
But just like that, it was gone.
"Sounds like a you problem," she said, turning toward the door.
I followed, smiling.
She thought she could push me away.
Like she did the rest of the world.
But she had no idea.
This time, I wasn't going anywhere.
---