The ballroom shimmered with crystal chandeliers, their light spilling across polished marble floors and gowns sewn with jewels. The air buzzed with the sound of laughter, clinking glasses, and the murmur of the city's elite. Tonight was the annual Bridgman Enterprises Charity Gala — an event that drew politicians, tycoons, celebrities, and reporters like moths to flame.
For Sharon Countbell, it was a battlefield dressed in velvet.
She stepped out of the sleek black car, photographers flashing wildly as her stilettos touched the red carpet. Gasps followed her entrance. She wore a silver gown that glittered under every light, its design hugging her figure with effortless grace. Her hair, styled in soft waves, framed her face like a crown. Reporters shouted her name, and Sharon turned just enough to let them capture her best angle.
She was not the ugly duckling. She was the swan, commanding every eye.
But beneath the dazzling smile, her heart drummed with anticipation. Tonight wasn't about publicity. Tonight was about him.
Arga Bridgman.
***
Inside the ballroom, Sharon mingled with actors, producers, and investors, her laughter light, her words sharp. She was polite but distant, every movement deliberate. She wanted to be seen, admired, remembered. And she was. Heads turned when she passed. Conversations paused when she spoke.
Yet her eyes kept scanning the crowd, searching.
And then — she saw him.
Arga Bridgman stood near the grand staircase, speaking with a group of suited businessmen. He was taller than she remembered, his shoulders broader, his presence commanding. His dark hair was slicked back neatly, his tailored suit accentuating the physique of someone who carried confidence like a second skin.
The years had carved maturity into his once-boyish face. He was no longer the charming bully of St. Helena Academy. He was a man now — refined, magnetic, powerful.
But Sharon's stomach twisted with something cold. She remembered the paper caricature. The laughter. Ugly Duckling.
The room seemed to shrink around her.
For a moment, her carefully crafted façade threatened to crack.
Then she straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and smiled.
The predator had just spotted her prey.
***
Arga caught her gaze across the room. His eyes narrowed slightly, curiosity flickering. Sharon didn't flinch. Instead, she walked toward him with measured grace, her heels striking the marble like the ticking of a clock counting down to something inevitable.
"Mr. Bridgman," she said when she reached him, her voice smooth, confident.
He turned fully to face her. For a heartbeat, silence stretched between them. Then his lips curved into a polite smile.
"And you are…?"
"Sharon Countbell," she replied, extending her hand.
His brow furrowed briefly, as if the name tickled something in the back of his mind. But he took her hand, his grip firm.
"Countbell," he repeated. "Yes, I've heard that name recently. Actress, correct?"
"Correct," she said with a small smile. "Though I believe we've met before."
Something flickered in his eyes — a spark of realrealisationt before he could speak, one of the businessmen clapped him on the shoulder, pulling him back into conversation.
Sharon stepped away, her lips still curved in a smile. Let him think. Let him struggle to place her. The moment he realrealised she was would be sweeter than wine.
***
Later that night, Sharon found herself on the balcony overlooking the glittering city. The cool night air brushed against her bare shoulders. She took a sip of champagne, savosavouring bubbles on her tongue, when a voice spoke behind her.
"I know who you are now."
She turned. Arga stood in the doorway, his eyes fixed on her.
"Oh?" she asked lightly, swirling the champagne in her glass.
"St. Helena Academy. You're…" He paused, searching her face. "You're Sharon Countbell. The girl who—"
"The ugly duckling?" she finished for him, her voice calm but edged with steel.
His jaw tightened. "I… didn't mean—"
"Of course you did," she interrupted smoothly, her hazel eyes locking onto his. "You and everyone else."
The silence stretched. For the first time that evening, the confident Arga Bridgman looked unsettled.
"You've… changed," he said finally.
Sharon smiled faintly, turning back to the city lights. "Everyone changes. Some grow wings. Some… remain the same."
Arga studied her, his expression unreadable. "I owe you an apology. I was—"
"A child," she finished again, her tone sharp. "Yes. And children can be cruel."
She placed her empty glass on the railing, then faced him fully. "But we're not children anymore, are we, Mr. Bridgman?"
For a moment, neither spoke. The city roared faintly beneath them, but up here, it was just the two of them — predator and prey, though which was which remained unclear.
Then Sharon stepped past him, her perfume lingering in the air. "Enjoy your evening," she said softly, her heels clicking as she disappeared back into the ballroom.
Arga remained on the balcony, his brows furrowed, his thoughts tangled. He had known countless women, women who fawned, who admired, who adored. But Sharon Countbell… she was different.
She remembered.
And she was not afraid.
***
Back in her penthouse later that night, Sharon sat before the mirror, her makeup half-removed, her gown draped carelessly across the chair. Her reflection stared back at her — tired, but triumphant.
She had done it. She had faced him, spoken to him, remiand nded him of what he had done.
But this was only the beginning.
Revenge was not about a single conversation. It was a slow, deliberate performance. One where the stage was life itself, and every act would build to the final scene.
Sharon Countbell had become an actress not just for fame. She had become an actress to play the greatest role of her life — the woman who would destroy Arga Bridgman.
And the curtains had only just risen.
***
Epilogue – The Echo of Laughter
Long after the gala ended and the ballroom emptied, Sharon lay awake in her penthouse bed, the city lights painting fractured patterns across her ceiling. Sleep refused to come.
She closed her eyes — and the past returned.
The echo of children's laughter.
The paper caricature crushed in her fist.
Arga's mocking voice: "Don't cry, Duckling."
Her fingers tightened against the silk sheets, nails digging into her palms until it hurt.
Tonight, she had seen him again. He stood taller, older, cloaked in wealth and admiration. But beneath it all, he was still the same boy who had pushed her into the shadows. He hadn't changed — not really.
But she had.
She had carved beauty from ugliness. Power from weakness. Fame from humiliation.
And now, the stage was set.
"Arga Bridgman," she whispered into the dark. "You laughed at me once. The world will laugh at you when I'm finished."
The city outside glittered like a thousand watching eyes.
Sharon closed hers at last, not with peace, but with purpose.
The swan had returned to the pond.
And the hunt was about to begin.