Henry and Ronan greeted each other.
When Ronan saw Aria his eyes lingered on her dress, her face, and for a moment she wondered if he thinks her from years past—when she had attended one of these galas in quiet humiliation, barely noticed, except when mocked.
"You look striking," he said at last. Henry shifted uncomfortably. "Welcome to the celebration. Tonight's an important night for us."
"Congratulations," Aria replied softly. "Seventy years is quite the milestone."
"Indeed," Ronan said, raising his glass slightly. "It means survival, legacy, and endurance. Not everyone can claim such things."
There was something in his tone—a layered meaning she couldn't quite decipher. Before she could dwell on it, another group swept in to greet Ronan, pulling Henry into the conversation as well. Aria found herself standing slightly apart, her smile fixed, her hands clasped over her clutch.
It was then that she felt it—a gaze burning into her skin. She turned her head slowly, already knowing what she would find.
Taylor Blackwell.
Her throat tightened. She had told herself she was ready. That she could face her, face all of them, without flinching. But now, confronted with his mocking eyes, she felt that old fear trying to rise.
"Aria." The voice was smooth, laced with a false sweetness. She was closer now, standing before her. "It's been far too long."
Her lips parted, but no sound came. She forced herself to inhale, to stand taller. "Taylor."
She looked her over with exaggerated slowness, his smirk deepening. "I must say, I almost didn't recognize you. You've changed."
"People do," she replied, her voice calm though her nails dug into the soft leather of her clutch.
"Yes, but not always for the better." She chuckled, leaning slightly toward her. "Red is quite a bold choice for you, isn't it? Anyone who sees you might think you're out hunting for another husband. It's pity."
The words struck like a whip, but she didn't let her face falter. Inside, though, the old scars burned.
"Funny," Aria said, her tone sharper now. "Because what I remember is you clinging to my cousin like a lapdog, desperate for his attention. Perhaps I wasn't the one to pity."
Taylor's smile faltered for a split second. She recovered quickly, but the shift was there. His eyes hardened. "Sharp tongue now, too. Careful, Aria. Not everyone here will appreciate such… boldness."
"I don't live for everyone's approval anymore," she replied.
A flicker of surprise passed across her face before she leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You think you belong here now? With Henry, with his world? Don't fool yourself."
She met his gaze evenly, the fire in her chest steadier now. "Neither do I. Which is why I'll never let anyone like you define me again."
Before Taylor could answer, Henry reappeared at her side, his hand resting lightly at the small of her back. "Everything alright?"
Aria turned to him, her expression softening instantly. "Perfectly."
Taylor forced a polite smile, excused himself, and melted back into the crowd. But not before casting one last glance at Aria—a look that promised their encounter wasn't finished.
The music swelled as the quartet transitioned to a livelier piece. Henry leaned closer. "What did she want?"
"Nothing worth repeating," Aria said, her voice firm.
Henry studied her, concern flickering in his eyes, but he didn't press further. Instead, he guided her toward another group, introducing her to business partners, colleagues, and their spouses. Compliments flowed toward her—her beauty, her elegance, her poise. With each passing exchange, she felt her confidence solidify, her earlier dread receding like a shadow at sunrise.
After the tedious and monotonous introductions, Ronan's father, Mr. Clarke, took the stage and gave a thank-you speech. Aria, unable to bear all the noise, sipped from her wine. Once you've died once, everything begins to feel utterly meaningless. These people who once ignored her, who used to look at her with disdain, were now showering her with compliments after a slight change in her appearance. She found it ridiculous, cheap even. She excused herself to the restroom to freshen up her makeup. The click of her heels, the classical music, the fake laughter—it all made her head throb.
When she looked in the mirror, she saw the insecurity inside her. While putting on those rehearsed, artificial airs, her heart was pounding with fear. She had never belonged to these places. They were environments she endured, never ones she desired. What she truly longed for was the ice rink. She wanted to hear the crackling of the ice beneath her skates, to watch the sun rise over the snow.
Taking deep breaths, she touched up her makeup. Yet now, she didn't find herself beautiful at all. Every woman in that hall seemed as though they had spent millions on a single strand of hair. In this endless competition, being more beautiful, being better—was never truly possible. It was all just a lie. Without realizing it, she had slipped into their world, let their thoughts seep into her own. She had to be prettier, had to captivate everyone, had to be respected by all. But with every achievement, she would only crave more. No. This wasn't the freedom she wanted. She didn't want the false affection of people who once belittled her. Now, it meant nothing.
Lost in thought, she returned to the hall. Henry was deep in conversation with his friend Ronan. She observed him. Henry belonged to this world. His posture, his gaze, his voice, his effortless demeanor, his confidence… every part of him fit here. But what about Aria?
Her steps carried her toward the exit. Without being noticed, she slipped out of the hall. She hailed a taxi and went home, sending Henry a message explaining that she had left early because of a headache.
She just needed some time to think.