Chapter 5

Mia

The private lounge was cold—leather sofa, gold fixtures, the kind of room designed to make you feel small. I pushed myself upright, my spine aching where Luke had thrown me down like I was someone he despised to his core, and found him standing right in front of me, looking down at me with that blank expression I'd spent eight years trying to forget.

The last time I'd felt his grip this strong was graduation night, in his bedroom, when he'd been young and reckless and burning with possessive need that had thrilled me to my core. He'd caught both my wrists in one hand—just one—and pinned them above my head against the wall, his body pressed against mine as he kissed me like he was trying to brand himself into my skin.

Back then, that dominance had felt like passion, like he was claiming me because he couldn't bear the thought of anyone else touching what was his. And I'd reveled in it, every possessive touch, every jealous claim.

Now, eight years later, as I rubbed my sore back where he'd dropped me onto this sofa, I wondered if he was even the same person anymore—or if it had always been this: control dressed up in softer packaging, waiting for the right moment to show its teeth.

A garment bag hit the cushion beside me, startling me out of the memory.

"Put this on," Luke said flatly.

"I don't need Apex Tech on the front page of every tabloid," he said, his voice cold and businesslike, "because you walked into my charity gala half-naked."

I looked down at the bag, my hands moving automatically to pull it open. Midnight blue fabric spilled out.

A woman's dress. How did he know what was in this lounge? How did he know exactly where to find a woman's dress?

I reached for the dress. High-necked, long-sleeved, conservative enough to make a nun proud—the exact opposite of the dramatic red gown I'd chosen for tonight, the one that now hung in tatters.

Was this hers? His girlfriend's? The thought sent a sharp, unwelcome twist through my chest—jealousy I had no right to feel. Of course he'd moved on.

Eight years was a lifetime. It would be stranger if he hadn't found someone new, if he'd spent all this time alone while I'd built a whole life an ocean away. I should be relieved that he'd let go, that someone else had filled the space I'd left empty.

But standing here in this cold room, holding another woman's dress, all I felt was the bitter sting of being replaced.

My fingers stilled on the fabric.

I exhaled slowly.

Without a word, I walked into the attached bathroom, shutting the door between us with more force than necessary.

My reflection in the mirror looked pale, shaken, the carefully applied makeup doing nothing to hide the shadows under my eyes.

I stripped off the ruined red dress and stepped into the blue one, my movements mechanical.

It fit awkwardly—a little loose in the waist, slightly tight across the shoulders. But I had no other choice.

When I emerged, Luke was pouring himself a drink at the small bar in the corner, his back to me.

I took a breath. Eight years. I'd convinced myself I'd moved on, that the memories had faded into something manageable, something I could control.

My nails dug into my palms.

"I'll have this cleaned and returned to your girlfriend," I said finally, my voice steadier than I felt.

He didn't turn around. For a moment, the only sound was the clink of ice against glass.

Then: "She doesn't like wearing things other people have touched."

I stood there. The ice clinked again in his glass.

I turned and walked toward the door, my heels clicking against the hardwood floor. My hand closed around the handle, and I pulled it open without looking back.

She was still there. The woman from before, the shadow I'd glimpsed as Luke had carried me into this room. She stood a few feet away, bathed in the soft glow of the wall sconces.

Chloe Harris.

My former desk mate, the quiet girl with the gentle smile who'd been one of the few people to show me kindness when I'd first returned to that suffocating small-town school eight years ago.

She was also the one who'd handed that video to Catherine and Brandon while Luke was lying in the ICU—grainy footage of me meeting with Cade and his crew outside an abandoned warehouse, our heads bent together in what looked like conspiracy.

Chloe had followed me that day, camera in hand, jealousy twisted into something uglier. She had no idea what I was actually saying to them, but she didn't need to know—all she had to do was capture me standing there, and let Catherine and Brandon's grief fill in the rest. All they saw was me with the people who'd put their son in intensive care, looking complicit.

She'd stood there in that hospital corridor, tears streaming down her face, and told them that everything Luke had become, all his pain and darkness, was because of me.

Of course she had every reason to be here. The day I left, I'd snuck into the hospital one last time to see Luke, and there she was—sitting by his bedside, attentive and devoted, playing the perfect caretaker.

Maybe she was Luke's girlfriend now. Maybe she was the owner of that dress.

Her eyes traveled down my body, taking in the blue dress, then lifted to my shoulders where Luke's suit jacket still rested—I hadn't even realized I was still wearing it. Her gaze lingered there for a moment, on the expensive fabric that carried his scent.

When she finally met my eyes, she smiled—the same soft expression she'd worn when offering to share her lunch on my first day back at school.

"Long time no see, Mia," she said, her voice warm and welcoming.

I glanced at her once and moved to walk past.

"Mia, it's been so long. You still don't take anyone seriously, do you?"

Behind me, I heard the lounge door being pushed open wider. Luke stepped out, and Chloe immediately transformed, her face shifting into a mask of delicate vulnerability as she hurried toward him.

"Luke, you're here too," she said softly, her voice taking on a fragile quality. "Catherine is waiting for us in the ballroom. Shall we go?"

Luke ignored her. I kept walking, refusing to watch Chloe's Oscar-worthy performance. Instead, I headed straight toward the ballroom—but her voice followed me, sweet as poison.

"Oh! Mia, have you forgotten that jacket you're wearing is Luke's? Shouldn't you return it to him? Should I remind you whose closet that dress came from?"

I stopped. Slowly, I turned back, meeting her eyes with a smile that didn't reach mine.

So it was that bitch's after all.