Sharon Countbell's phone buzzed the next morning.
"La Belle Étoile. 8 p.m. Private room." – Arga
She smiled faintly at the message. La Belle Étoile was one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city, a place where deals were whispered over wine worth more than most people's rent, where privacy was guarded like treasure. Arga had chosen the battlefield carefully. But he didn't know Sharon had already prepared her armour, sharpened her weapons.
She typed her reply with the same precision she brought to the stage.
"I'll be there."
Then she set her phone aside. The day stretched before her, filled with anticipation, every tick of the clock a drumbeat counting toward the evening.
But this time, we leave Sharon's penthouse for another scene — Arga Bridgman's world.
***
Interlude: Arga
The Bridgman Tower rose above the city like a monument to power. On the top floor, Arga Bridgman stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows, his reflection blending with the skyline. In his hand was a glass of whiskey, half-finished. He wasn't drinking for pleasure. He was drinking because something gnawed at him.
The gala.
Her face.
Sharon Countbell.
He had recognised her the moment she said her name, though he hadn't wanted to admit it. The memory was sharp, almost cruel: a girl with tangled hair, hunched shoulders, oversized sweaters. The butt of every joke. The one they had mocked until she stopped looking anyone in the eye.
And he had led the charge.
Arga swirled the amber liquid in his glass, guilt tightening his chest. He had forgotten so many faces from school — boys he competed with, girls who swooned over him. But Sharon… her humiliation was burned into his memory. At the time, he hadn't thought twice. It had been easy, effortless, like kicking a stray dog everyone else already mocked.
But seeing her at the gala, transformed into a woman who silenced rooms with a glance, had jolted him.
She wasn't the ugly duckling anymore. She was breathtaking. And worse — she had looked at him with eyes that remembered everything.
Arga finished the whiskey in one swallow. He hated admitting weakness, even to himself. But the truth was unavoidable: guilt had stalked him all night.
"I need to make this right," he muttered to his empty office.
It wasn't just about her beauty, though that had struck him like lightning. It was the weight of what he had done. The thought that somewhere out there was a woman who carried scars he had carved — and now, that woman had the power to judge him.
So he sent the message. A dinner. An apology. A chance, however slim, to erase the past.
But part of him also wanted to see her again. Not just to apologize. To understand. How had the fragile, awkward girl become this? How had she turned her pain into such power?
He told himself it was curiosity. But deep down, Arga knew it was more.
***
That evening, Arga dressed with unusual care. His suit was navy, tailored to perfection, his tie a subtle shade of silver. He looked every bit the man the world expected him to be — confident, charismatic, untouchable. But beneath the polished surface, unease gnawed.
He checked his reflection one last time, adjusted his cufflinks, and left Bridgman Tower. The city's lights glinted against the sleek black car waiting for him. As the driver pulled away, Arga stared out at the passing streets, rehearsing words he had never spoken aloud.
"I'm sorry for what I did to you."
"You didn't deserve it."
"I was young. Stupid. Cruel."
The phrases felt clumsy on his tongue. He wasn't used to apologizing. Power was rarely required. But this was different. Sharon was different.
When the car pulled up to La Belle Étoile, Arga's pulse quickened. He straightened his jacket, exhaled slowly, and stepped out.
The battlefield awaited.
***
Meanwhile, across town, Sharon moved like a dancer through her preparations. The black silk dress Yvette had tailored the day before hung perfectly on her frame. Her makeup was flawless, her crimson lips a blade sharpened to a point. She wore diamond earrings that glinted like stars but chose no necklace, leaving her throat bare, vulnerable yet defiant.
She studied herself in the mirror one last time. The swan stared back — elegant, dangerous, untouchable.
She whispered to her reflection, "He will not see the girl. Only the woman."
Then she picked up her clutch, slipped on her heels, and left the apartment.
The car ride was silent, the city's lights reflecting in her eyes. She rehearsed nothing aloud. Every line she needed was already carved into her mind. Tonight was not about words alone. It was about presence, control, the subtle tilt of her head, the silence that could strangle more than speech.
When she arrived at La Belle Étoile, the maître d' greeted her with a bow, leading her through velvet-draped halls to the private room.
Arga was already there.
He rose as she entered, his eyes flickering — admiration, guilt, something else. Sharon felt his gaze on her like heat, but she walked forward with measured grace, her heels clicking softly against the marble.
"Miss Countbell," he said, his voice low, careful.
"Mr. Bridgman," she replied smoothly.
They sat.
The battle had begun.
***
Epilogue – The Table Between Them
The private room of La Belle Étoile fell into silence after the maître d' closed the door. A crystal chandelier bathed the table in golden light, the polished silverware gleaming like unsheathed blades.
Between Sharon and Arga stretched the length of a pristine white tablecloth — a gulf of years, of scars, of unfinished sentences.
Arga adjusted his cufflinks, masking nerves behind practiced composure. He told himself this was just dinner. Just words. Just a chance to cleanse his conscience.
Sharon, across from him, rested her hands lightly on her lap, her posture a portrait of calm. Yet inside, her pulse beat in rhythm with her vow. This was not dinner. This was theater. The opening act of a play she had written long ago in the dark corners of her pain.
Neither spoke. The silence thickened, charged with ghosts neither was ready to name.
At last, Sharon's lips curved — a faint, unreadable smile.
The curtain had risen.
And neither of them could leave the stage now.