The evening bled gold across the city skyline, reflected in the mirrored glass of the penthouse ballroom. The gala was almost over — another endless parade of investors, artists, and executives shaking hands over champagne.
Alexander Knight had endured worse nights, but never one that itched under his skin like this.
She was here again.He could feel her.
That same inexplicable awareness — a pull threaded through noise and light, steady as a pulse. It had haunted him since the last event, teasing at the edge of logic.
He tried to ignore it, drowning himself in small talk, in the rhythm of business. But the air itself betrayed him — perfumed with something faintly floral and clean, a scent that shouldn't have lingered in memory yet did.
And then he saw her.
Across the ballroom, near a marble pillar wreathed in white orchids.Her hair was swept up tonight, revealing the elegant line of her neck, the slope of bare shoulder framed by silk the color of midnight. The dress fit like shadow — simple, sophisticated, devastating.
He'd told himself before that she only looked like her.But now…
Every instinct in him went still.
It couldn't be coincidence — not twice.
Selene Brooks.
He mouthed the name without sound, and something inside him broke open.
She turned slightly, laughter from another conversation catching her off guard — soft, almost reluctant. It hit him harder than the first time he'd heard his own name spoken in her voice.
He didn't think. He moved.
Crossed the ballroom with the effortless precision that once made boardrooms tremble. Yet this wasn't about power — this was hunger. Old, unwelcome, and alive.
By the time he reached her circle, she was already turning away, handing a glass to an assistant, glancing toward the terrace.
He followed her.
The balcony was nearly empty — a ribbon of marble and glass overlooking the glittering city. The hum of the party dulled behind the doors, replaced by the sigh of wind and the faint hum of traffic far below.
She stood at the railing, both hands braced lightly against it, her head tilted up as if the night sky held something worth confessing to.
He stepped closer.
Her perfume reached him first — jasmine and rain, sharpened by the chill air. It undid the years between them in a single breath.
"Beautiful view," he said finally, voice low.
She stiffened, the movement infinitesimal, but he saw it — the delicate tightening of her shoulders, the pause of breath.
Slowly, she turned.
And the world — his carefully constructed, perfectly ordered world — stopped breathing with her.
"Alexander."
Her voice. Quiet. Controlled.No accusation, no tremor. Just… calm. Too calm.
He stared at her, eyes searching the face he'd convinced himself he'd never see again.
The same mouth. The same eyes — though colder now, steel instead of warmth.A stranger wearing the skin of the only woman who had ever made him feel anything real.
"Selene."The name came out rougher than he intended, scraping against something he didn't want to admit still hurt.
"You remember," she said, almost lightly.
"How could I forget?"
Her lips curved — not a smile, but a shield. "Easily. You've had practice."
He exhaled slowly, steadying the sharpness rising in his throat. "You disappeared."
"I left."
"That's one word for it."
"And you're still fond of control, I see," she murmured. "Even over narratives that don't belong to you."
He almost smiled. Almost. "You think walking away from me erased what happened?"
Her gaze flicked toward the city again, dismissive. "I didn't walk away from what happened, Alexander. I walked away from what never would."
The silence stretched. The wind carried the faint sound of strings from inside. Her hair fluttered against her cheek; she didn't brush it back.
He watched her — the minute gestures, the stillness that spoke more than words.
"You look different," he said finally.
"Older?"
"Stronger."
"Funny," she said, voice softer now, "you used to like me weaker."
That hit home more than she could know.
He stepped closer, too close, close enough that the hem of her dress shifted against his shoes when the wind moved. "You think I liked seeing you small?" he asked quietly.
"I think you liked being the reason I was."
Her eyes met his then — sharp, fearless. And that was when it hit him fully.
Memory slammed into the present: the sound of her laugh, the feel of her skin, the way she had once looked at him like he was both salvation and sin.
The heat that followed was immediate, unwelcome, and absolute.
He'd forgotten how she did that — how she could turn silence into combustion.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The air between them shimmered with everything unspoken.
She took a slow step back, breaking the fragile current. "This was a mistake," she said, her voice steadier than her hands. "Working here. Coming here. Seeing you."
"Why?" he asked, though the answer already clawed at his chest.
"Because men like you don't forget," she said, "but you also don't forgive."
He tilted his head. "Forgive?"
"For leaving before you could discard me."
His jaw tightened. "You think I would have?"
"I know you would have."
The certainty in her tone struck harder than any accusation. He had no defense — not an honest one.
The wind shifted. A strand of her hair brushed his collar, feather-light, intimate.He hadn't realized he'd moved until she drew in a sharp breath — his hand almost brushing hers on the railing.
Her eyes darted to the contact, then back to his face.
She whispered, "Don't."
He froze.
Not because of the word — but because of the plea beneath it. Not fear, not disgust, but something far more dangerous: memory.
He could feel it between them.
The echo of what once existed — the heat, the ruin, the pulse of bodies that had once known each other too well.
And then, before he could decide whether to step back or closer, she turned.
"Goodnight, Alexander."
His name in her mouth undid him.Soft. Final.
She began to walk away, her heels clicking softly against the marble.
He watched her go — the sway of fabric, the deliberate calm of her steps. He knew this composure; he'd seen her use it before, just before breaking.
And something in him refused to let her vanish again.
He reached forward, caught her wrist just as she reached the door.
The contact was electric — skin to skin, warm, alive, undeniable.
She froze.
"Don't," she whispered again, but it lacked conviction this time.
He leaned in, his voice a low rasp near her ear. "You think you can just reappear in my world and walk away like you never existed?"
Her breath hitched.
"I didn't reappear in your world," she said. "You walked into mine."
He tightened his grip, not enough to hurt, but enough to stop her from fleeing.
"Then tell me," he murmured, "why it feels like you never left."
Her eyes lifted to his, wide and furious — and full of something that burned.
For the first time, he saw it. Beneath the anger. Beneath the frost.Fear. Not of him. Of what touching him again would undo.
And in that moment, Alexander Knight remembered everything — the sound of her laughter in the dark, the warmth of her body against his, the promise he'd never made but she'd believed anyway.
The past slammed back into him with the force of a confession.
It was her.It had always been her.
The woman he'd thought he'd imagined, the ghost who haunted his sleep — she was here, breathing, breaking, and about to vanish again.
He couldn't allow it.
"Alexander," she said quietly, his name trembling at the edges. "Let me go."
He stared down at their joined hands, his thumb brushing the inside of her wrist where her pulse raced like a trapped bird.
"You disappeared once," he said. "You don't get to do it twice."
Her eyes flared — hurt, defiance, something deeper.
"Watch me," she whispered.
Then she twisted free.
The door swung open. Cold air rushed in from the hall.
By the time he followed — she was gone.
Only the scent of her lingered, and the echo of his heartbeat thundering in the emptiness she left behind.
Alexander stands alone on the balcony, her warmth still ghosting his skin. The realization has settled deep — it was Selene, the one who vanished with secrets. And this time, he won't let her slip into the dark so easily.