Chapter 7

The air buzzed with excitement as guests arrived at the Blackwood Hotel's enormous ballroom, the venue for the year's most anticipated charity event. Cameras flashed, reporters shouted names, and the city's elite, draped in beautiful gowns and tailored suits, strolled through the doors. But tonight wasn't about them. Tonight was about her.

Aria Laurent stepped from a sleek black sedan, her heels clicking on the polished marble. The moment she appeared, the room fell silent—as if the very air had stilled. She was stunning. Clad in a deep crimson gown that hugged her figure, her dark hair swept into a neat updo, a diamond necklace resting perfectly against her collarbone, she exuded authority—the kind of power that commanded attention, the kind that made her dangerous.

She ignored the flashing cameras and murmuring, ascending the steps. They didn't matter. Only one person's reaction did. And he was inside. Adrian Marsden had spent months hunting—months of sleepless nights, chasing fruitless clues, drowning in remorse, regret, and the overwhelming sense of having lost everything that mattered. He told himself she was gone, that he had to accept it, but he never did.

Now, amidst the ballroom's throng, surrounded by people oblivious to his hollowness, he sensed her—a presence, a shift in the atmosphere. And then, as if fate played its cruelest hand, he spotted her. His breath caught; the glass in his hand nearly slipped. For a moment, his heart stopped. Isabella. No. Not Isabella, not the woman he had broken.

The woman at the door, moving with such confidence, fire in her eyes, an expression so cold it sent shivers down his spine… she wasn't his wife. She was someone else entirely. But it didn't matter. She was alive. And that was all that mattered to Adrian.

Aria felt his gaze before she saw him. Her steps slowed, just enough to savor the moment—the moment Adrian Marsden realized he had lost. She turned, meeting his eyes across the ballroom. His usually composed face crumbled; his hands clenched into fists; his chest heaved. For months, he'd convinced himself she was gone, dead, lost forever. And now, here she was—alive, untouched, unreachable, a spirit refusing to stay buried.

Aria inclined her head, a subtle, enigmatic smile playing on her lips. Then, she deliberately turned away, as if he were nothing, as if he no longer existed. Adrian moved before his mind could catch up, pushing through the crowd, ignoring the puzzled stares and inquiries, his gaze fixed on her. She strolled with effortless grace, her posture relaxed, unperturbed. Like she belonged there. Like she had never left. Like she hadn't faked her own death and fled his world.

His pulse pounded in his ears as he reached her, his hand seizing her wrist before she could take another step. The moment their skin touched, he felt it—the shock, the connection, the electricity that had always been between them.

She slowly turned, her expression calm. But her eyes… cold and deadly. Not his Isabella.

"Bella…" His voice was barely a whisper, heavy with disbelief and something dangerously close to hope. "Tell me this isn't a dream."

Aria didn't immediately pull away. She let him cling to the delusion for a second more. Then, with precise control, she slipped her hand from his grasp and took a delicate sip of her champagne.

"Mr. Marsden," she murmured smoothly, her lips twisting into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Do I know you?"

Adrian's breath hitched. His world shattered. The woman before him wasn't confused, wasn't someone who had lost her memory or been abducted. She was choosing not to know him, choosing to erase him.

Adrian stumbled back, as if she had struck him. "No," he answered, shaking his head. His voice was gruff and low. "No, you don't get to do this."

Aria raised an eyebrow. "Do what?"

His jaw tightened. "Pretend."

Her composure remained unshaken. "I'm not pretending anything, Mr. Marsden."

Adrian felt like he was drowning. The last time he'd seen her, she had been his wife, his everything. Now, she was untouchable.

She turned to leave again, but Adrian's hand slammed against the wall beside her, blocking her path.

"Enough," he hissed.

For the first time that night, Aria smiled—slow, sarcastic, laced with amusement. She leaned forward, her breath warm against his ear.

"Careful, Adrian," she cautioned. "People are watching."

He didn't care—not about the murmurs, the glances, the entire city watching him fall apart. His other hand brushed against her waist, gripping the fabric of her dress.

"You left," he continued, his voice taut. "You faked your death and walked away like I meant nothing."

She tilted her head, her expression still unreadable. "Because you didn't."

His heart stopped. For a second, just a second, she saw it—the sorrow in his eyes. Adrian had always been adept at masking his emotions, at playing the perfect man, the perfect husband. But now? Now, he was exposed, and Aria reveled in it.

She leaned back, effortlessly brushing past him, leaving behind only the faintest trace of perfume. Adrian stood there, paralyzed, breathless, hollow. Then, as if she hadn't just decimated him in two minutes, she glanced over her shoulder and delivered the final blow.

"It was nice meeting you, Mr. Marsden."

Then, she vanished into the crowd. Adrian Marsden had always been the hunter. But tonight… he was the prey.