Amaya
The dress arrived just before nine.
Garment bag. Black silk. No card. Just my name in script , with the kind of handwriting that said money, not affection.
Hannah unzipped it before I even reached the tag.
"Ouuu. Christian Knight did not come to play."
It was backless. Structured. A slit that knew exactly where the line was, and how to toe it.
"You think he picked it himself?" I asked.
She held it up to me. "I think he's been looking at you long enough to know what works."
I didn't answer. Just reached for my coffee and opened my laptop.
Florence needed confirmation. Morocco had sent last-minute revisions. By ten, I'd cleared everything. Everything except my thoughts.
"You're the only woman I know reviewing Moroccan floor plans on the day of her engagement party to Christian fucking Knight."
I glanced at her. "Someone has to keep the lights on."
She laughed from the couch, robe draped, legs crossed, scrolling through designers she didn't need.
"You sure you're good for tonight? No nerves? No cold feet?"
"It's an engagement party, not an execution."
"Same thing. Just with better wine."
By noon, Hannah was gone. She had her own errands, her own glam, her own dramatic entrance to plan. "Make sure to look sexy for that man," she'd said. "I'll see you at the party."
I was alone in the penthouse when I finally unzipped the dress again.
It fit.
Of course it did.
---
Christian arrived just before six.
No text. No warning. Just a knock like he belonged here.
He wore black. Always black. His jaw was sharp. His gaze slower. It moved from my heels to my eyes like he was appraising property.
He didn't speak right away.
Then:
"You wore it."
"I'm sure that's the purpose for which you sent it."
That was all.
He held out his arm. And I took it.
---
The Knight Estate glittered like a curated fantasy.
Soft strings. Understated florals. Champagne flutes too thin to breathe near.
Elaine met us at the entrance. Pearls, poise, and perfect warmth.
She kissed both my cheeks.
"You two look perfect."
"Thank you, Elaine. You look beautiful too."
She smiled like she already owned the night.
"Thank you, darling. The party's yours. Enjoy it."
---
The ballroom buzzed. Power mingling with champagne, all of it captured by cameras pretending not to be watching. I stood beside Christian, his hand warm at the small of my back, smile trained into place. But the walls were closing in.
I needed a moment.
Just five minutes of silence.
I slipped toward the terrace, cool air brushing my skin as the noise softened behind me.
And then—
I stopped.
No warning. No mental preparation.
Ava Winthrop.
Red satin. Glossed lips. That self-satisfied tilt of her chin that said she knew she was about to ruin someone's night.
What the hell was she doing here?
She hadn't seen me yet. Not until I moved.
Her gaze snapped toward me like she'd been waiting.
"Well," she said. "Amaya Devreaux. Didn't think we'd be in the same room this soon."
"Neither did I."
She eyed me.
"You look… okay."
"Looking," I said. "That's what you came here to do, right?"
She stepped closer.
"He called me last night."
I tilted my head. "You mistake me for someone who cares."
"He was with me," she said. "Inside me. Saying my name. Fucking me like he meant it. And you think a ring changes that?"
I didn't flinch. "Oh, Ava."
"He wants me. And you're angry."
"No, you're angry because you still have to pretend you matter."
That one hit.
She stiffened.
"He'll come back. He always does."
"That's not a flex, Ava. That's a loop."
"He doesn't love you."
"He doesn't need to," I said. "I'm not here for his heart, Winthrop."
She scoffed. "Dress up all you want. Smile for the cameras. But he'll always want me. Pussy power."
I stepped in. Close.
"You don't scare me. You're loud, predictable, and of course, temporary. I'm what he needs when the lights go off and the cameras stop flashing. So if you want to play dirty, darling, make sure you can afford the cleanup."
She blinked.
That was all.
"Now," I added, brushing past her, "have a lovely evening, Ava. Try not to embarrass yourself any more than you already have."
---
Christian
I was mid-conversation with one of my father's partners when I saw her.
Amaya. Face stoic, controlled, composed, and pissed.
She walked right up to me.
"Winthrop is here."
"I know."
"And you let her?"
"I didn't invite her."
"But you didn't stop her."
I said nothing.
"Christian," she said, low and clipped. "Tell your plaything to stay out of my way."
"She's not—"
"Don't lie," she cut in. "Not to me. I don't care where you sleep. Or who you sleep with. But I do care what walks into my space."
She stepped closer.
"If this is going to look real, keep your mess behind closed doors."
Then she turned and walked away.
No more words.
I watched her go — spine like a blade, heels like punctuation.
And just like that, I knew:
I was no longer writing this story.
---
Later That Night
Ava stumbled out of Club NÓIR at 1:04 a.m.
Dress wrinkled. Lipstick gone. One heel missing.
Headlines:
> AVA WINTHROP: RED DRESS, RED FLAGS.
> Ex of Christian Knight Spotted Leaving Club Alone — Sources Say She's Spiraling.
> Ava Who?