Now, standing across from him again beneath the glittering chandeliers and painted smiles, she didn't feel that old ache. Not really. It wasn't pain anymore—it had dulled into something colder, quieter. Something like recognition.
Complicated.
That was the word for it.
She didn't hate him. Not the way she had that night, curled beneath her covers, teeth clenched, tears held back like they were shameful. She didn't even feel the sting of that moment like a wound. Not anymore.
But she did remember.
And the memory didn't warm her.
Thalor Draycott wasn't a heartbreak.
He was a reminder.
Of who she'd been. Of what she'd believed. Of just how naïve a girl could be before the world carved its truths into her with silk gloves and silver knives.
Looking at him now, she felt nothing soft. No flutter, no yearning, no ghost of that childhood fondness. The part of her that once leaned toward him had long since been cauterized. What remained was sharp-edged clarity.
