The announcement came at eight-thirty.
"Ladies and gentlemen, our host for the evening, Mr. Liam Vance, will now open the dancing."
Polite applause rippled through the Great Hall. The crowd shifted, creating space near the center of the room. An orchestra—an actual orchestra—began tuning instruments in the corner.
Elara's stomach dropped.
She'd forgotten this part. The tradition. The host choosing a partner for the opening dance, signaling the official start of the gala's festivities.
Seven years ago, Liam had chosen her. She'd been nobody—a coffee shop girl in a borrowed dress—and he'd walked across that ballroom floor and extended his hand like she was a queen.
She'd fallen in love with him in that moment.
And spent the next five years regretting it.
"Who's he going to pick?" someone near her whispered.
"Victoria Hartwell. Has to be. They've been photographed together."
"No, the mayor's daughter. Political move."
Elara turned to Xander. "We should move. Get Leo somewhere less—"
"El." Xander's face was tense. "Look."
She looked.
Liam had stepped into the cleared space. Tuxedo perfect. Posture commanding. Every eye in the room tracking his movement.
He surveyed the crowd. Dozens of women straightened, hoping to be chosen. Victoria Hartwell, stunning in red. The mayor's daughter in white. A model, an heiress, a CEO in her own right.
All beautiful. All appropriate. All acceptable choices.
Liam walked past them.
All of them.
His eyes locked on Elara.
No.
She saw his intention in the set of his shoulders, the focus of his gaze.
"Xander—" Her voice came out strangled.
"I see it." His hand tightened on her arm. Protective. Possessive. "You don't have to—"
But Liam was already moving. Through the crowd. People parting like water. Straight toward her.
Every camera in the room turned. Every whisper stopped. The entire gala held its breath.
He stopped three feet away.
Not close enough to touch. Close enough that she could smell his cologne—cedar and something dark, achingly familiar. Close enough to see the grey of his eyes, storm-cloud dark and absolutely focused.
On her.
He didn't acknowledge Xander. Didn't acknowledge Leo clinging to her skirt, watching with wide curious eyes.
Just her.
"Elara."
Not Ms. Hart. Not the mother of his child. Her name.
The intimacy of it was a shock.
"Liam." She kept her voice cool. "What are you doing?"
"Opening the dance. Tradition requires it."
"There are a hundred women here who'd be more appropriate."
"Undoubtedly." His mouth curved. Not quite a smile. "But I'm not asking them."
"You can't—"
"I'm not asking you either." He extended his hand. "This is a business necessity. The mother of my child. The woman I'm publicly co-parenting with. Choosing anyone else would spark speculation. Surely you understand the optics."
The bastard.
He was framing it as strategy. As public relations. As something she couldn't refuse without making a scene.
"Unless," he added, his voice dropping lower, intimate, dangerous, "you're afraid to be seen with me."
The challenge landed like a slap.
Every eye was watching. Every camera recording. If she refused, the headlines would write themselves: Elara Hart Too Bitter to Dance with Ex-Husband. Liam Vance Publicly Rejected.
And worse: Everyone would know he'd gotten to her. That she was afraid. That he still had power over her.
She felt Xander's hand on her back. Steadying. Or holding her back.
"El," Xander said quietly. "You don't have to do this."
"Yes," Liam said, still watching her. "She does."
"Like hell—" Xander started.
"It's fine." Elara cut him off. She looked at Xander, saw the worry in his eyes, the resignation. "It's one dance. For appearances. That's all."
It wasn't all. They both knew it.
But she wasn't going to give Liam the satisfaction of seeing her run.
She looked down at Leo. "Stay with Xander, okay? Mommy will be right back."
"Why are you dancing with Liam?"
Good question.
"Because it's polite. And we're being polite tonight."
Leo nodded, accepting this with the easy trust of childhood. Xander took his hand, but his eyes stayed on Elara. Warning. Concerned.
She turned back to Liam.
Placed her hand in his.
His fingers closed around hers. Warm. Firm. Possessive.
Exactly the way he'd held her hand seven years ago.
"Smart choice," he murmured.
"Don't," she warned. "Don't act like this means anything."
"It means you're not a coward."
"It means I won't let you manipulate me into looking weak."
His smile sharpened. "Of course. That's the only reason."
He led her onto the dance floor.
The orchestra began. Something slow. Elegant. The kind of music that required bodies close together, hands on waists, breath mixing.
Liam's hand found the small of her back. Drew her in.
Not too close. Not inappropriate. But close enough that she could feel his heat. Close enough that anyone watching would see: intimacy.
His other hand held hers, raised in the traditional position.
And they began to dance.
Liam had forgotten how perfectly she fit against him.
Seven years. Five of them spent trying to forget her. And the moment she was in his arms again, muscle memory took over.
She still fit. Exactly. Like she'd been designed for this space against his chest.
"You're stiff," he said.
"I'm angry."
"You're beautiful."
She looked up sharply. "Don't."
"Don't what? State facts?"
"Don't pretend this is anything other than what it is. A power play."
"Can't it be both?"
They turned. The crowd watched. Cameras flashed. This moment would be on every society page tomorrow: Liam Vance and Ex-Wife Elara Hart Reunite at Charity Gala.
The narrative was writing itself. Exactly as he'd planned.
"You're enjoying this," Elara said.
"Yes."
"You're using me."
"Yes."
"You're—" She stopped. Searching for anger. Finding something else. "Why the champagne dress?"
The question surprised him. "What?"
"You sent me the midnight blue. I chose this one. You looked... pleased. Why?"
Because she'd come at all. Because she'd walked into his world wearing armor chosen by another man and still looked at him like he mattered.
Because the dress didn't matter. Only the woman inside it did.
But he couldn't say that. Not yet. Not when she was brittle and guarded and ready to run at the first sign of weakness.
"You wore Reed's dress to prove you'd moved on," he said instead. "But you're here. In my arms. In my gala. In my world." He leaned closer, lips near her ear. "The dress doesn't matter, Elara. You're still mine."
She stiffened. "I'm not—"
"You are. You were mine the moment you served me coffee with a smile that could've stopped traffic. You were mine when you walked down the aisle. You were mine when you ran." His hand tightened on her back. "And you're mine now, even if you've convinced yourself otherwise."
"You don't own me."
"I know. But I want to." Raw. Honest. Devastating. "I want everything I threw away. Everything I was too stupid and broken to see I had."
The music swelled. They turned. The world watched.
"This is a performance," Elara said, but her voice shook. "You're performing for the cameras."
"I'm performing for you."
"Then stop. I don't want—"
"Liar."
She met his eyes. And he saw it. The crack in her armor. The want she was trying so hard to deny.
She felt it too. This pull. This gravity.
It terrified her.
Good. It terrified him too.
"Three minutes," she said. "The song ends, I walk away, we don't speak for the rest of the night."
"Agreed."
"And this changes nothing."
"If you say so."
They danced. The orchestra played. The crowd watched.
And for three minutes, in the middle of a ballroom filled with people, they were alone.
Just Liam and Elara. The way they'd been seven years ago, before everything broke.
"I hate you," she whispered.
"I know."
"You destroyed me."
"I know that too."
"So why—" Her voice cracked. "Why can't I breathe when you're this close?"
"Because we were real once. Before I ruined it. Before I became the monster. We were real."
"That's not enough."
"No. But it's a start."
The music shifted. Final movement. Building to the end.
"When this song ends—" Elara started.
"You walk away. I know."
"And we're done."
"For tonight."
"Forever."
He looked at her. Storm-grey eyes meeting amber fire.
"You keep telling yourself that, Elara. Maybe one day you'll believe it."
The final note played. The crowd applauded.
They stopped dancing.
But neither let go immediately.
For three seconds. Four.
His hand on her back. Her hand in his. Bodies still close. Breath still mixing.
Then Elara stepped back.
Composed herself. Became the woman who'd chosen the champagne dress and Alexander Reed's steady presence.
"Thank you for the dance, Mr. Vance."
Formal. Distant. Perfect.
"The pleasure," he said, his voice low enough only she could hear, "was entirely mine."
She turned. Walked back toward Xander and Leo. Head high. Spine straight.
Not running. Walking. Controlled. Poised.
But her hands were shaking.
He saw it.
And smiled.
Elara made it five steps before her knees threatened to give out.
Xander was there immediately. "El?"
"I'm fine."
"You're trembling."
"I said I'm fine."
Leo tugged her dress. "Mommy, you're really good at dancing!"
She forced a smile. Knelt down to his level, using the movement to catch her breath. "Thank you, baby."
"Can I dance too?"
"Maybe later."
"Liam looked sad when you left."
Her heart stuttered. "He did?"
"Yeah. Like he wanted you to stay."
Xander's hand found her shoulder. Squeezed. Warning. Comfort. Both.
"Let's get some air," he said.
They moved toward the terrace. Away from the crowd. Away from cameras. Away from Liam Vance's gravitational pull.
But Elara could feel his eyes on her back.
Watching. Calculating. Planning his next move.
And the worst part?
Part of her wanted him to make it.
Across the room, Liam accepted congratulations from board members. Fielded questions about his "reconciliation" with Elara. Let the speculation build.
But his attention stayed locked on the terrace doors.
Where Elara had escaped with Reed and Leo.
His assistant appeared. "Sir? The Beijing delegation is asking—"
"Not now."
"But—"
"I said not now."
He was watching the doors. Waiting. Planning.
Three minutes in his arms, and she'd cracked. He'd felt it. The way her breath had hitched. The way she'd leaned into him before catching herself.
She wanted him. Hated that she wanted him. But wanted him nonetheless.
And now she was outside with Reed, probably being talked down from whatever feelings Liam had deliberately stirred up.
Good.
Let Reed try to compete with chemistry. With history. With the kind of pull that defied logic.
Let him try to win a war he'd already lost.
Liam set down his champagne.
And walked toward the terrace.