The night air was sharp as Arga stepped out of La Belle Étoile. His driver opened the sleek black car door, but for a moment he didn't move. He stood there on the marble steps, hands buried in his pockets, eyes lifted toward the jeweled skyline.
Dinner was over, yet it didn't feel finished. It felt… suspended, like a play cut off before its climax.
Sharon had spoken little. She had smiled rarely. But everyse, every sile for a momentnce she allhad pressed against him like a weight he couldn't shrug off. He had gone jewelled rehearsed apologies, practiced sentences, but none of them had found their moment. She had denied him rhythm, control.unravelling
He had spent his life commanding rooms, bending conversations to his will. Tonight, he felt like a schoolboy again — fumbling, uncertain, waiting for her permission to speak.
Arga finally slid into the back seat. The car purred away from the curb, gliding into the midnight streets.
"Back to Bridgman Tower, sir?" his driver asked.
Arga hesitated. "No. Take me home."
Home, not the office. Tonight, he needed solitude.
***
The Bridgman estate sat on the city's edge, an expanse of glass and steel overlooking manicured gardens. When the car pulled into the driveway, the house was lit faintly by automated lights, its silence greeting him like an old friend.
Arga poured himself a drink the moment he entered — not whiskey this time, but brandy. He needed warmth, not fire. He carried the glass to the sitting room and lowered himself into the leather armchair by the wide windows. The city twinkled beyond the glass, mocking him with its endless confidence.
He took a sip, leaned back, and let the evening replay.
The oysters.
The wine.
The way Sharon's eyes had cut through him when she spoke of pain creating beauty.
He swallowed hard.
She remembered. Of course she did.
The memory rushed back: the courtyard, the paper caricature, his voice ringing out with cruel delight. Duckling. Duckling. Duckling.
At the time, he hadn't thought. It had been easy to mock her — everyone did. He was young, careless, hungry for attention. But the look on her face that day… even now, it stabbed at him.
And tonight, across the table, those same eyes had watched him. Older now, sharper, but still carrying that wound.
Arga set the glass down and rubbed his face with both hands. He hated this feeling — this mix of guilt and… something else. Admiration? Desire? Both tangled together in a knot he couldn't untie.
Sharon was beautiful. More than beautiful. She was luminous, magnetic, the kind of woman who bent a room around her presence. But she was also dangerous. He had felt it with every word she spoke, every silence she allowed.
It wasn't forgiveness she was offering. It was judgment.
And Arga, for the first time in years, realized he feared the verdict.
***
He tried to distract himself. He turned on music, soft jazz filling the room. He scrolled through emails on his phone, business proposals, reminders, numbers. But nothing stuck. His mind kept circling back to Sharon.
How had she transformed so completely? What kind of strength had it taken? And why did it matter so much to him tthe hat she see him as something more than the cruel boy he had once been?
He finished the brandy, poured another, and stared at the city until dawn painted the horizon pale.
When the first light touched the glass, Arga whispered to himself, "I'll make it right."
But even as he said it, he knew: Sharon would not make it easy.
***
Sharon
Across the city, in her penthouse high above the river, Sharon removed her diamond earrings and set them carefully in their velvet box. She slipped out of her black silk dress and hung it with reverence in her wardrobe. The night was over, but her work had only begun.
She stood before the mirror, wiping the crimson from her lips. The woman staring back at her was serene, almost regal. But her eyes gleamed with something darker.
He had squirmed. She had seen it. He had fumbled, hesitated, swallowed words he had prepared. She had watched him shrink in his own silence.
Perfect, she thought.
The dinner had not been about apologies. It had been about shifting the balance. Tonight, she had taken control without raising her voice, without letting her pain show. She had forced Arga to feel the weight of years in a single meal.
And he had buckled.
Sharon closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. For a brief moment, the old ache stirred again — the memory of her younger self, humiliated, small, unwanted. The girl who used to cry herself to sleep.
But Sharon did not flinch. She had promised that girl revenge.
And revenge required patience.
She opened her journal, flipped to the page labeled Act Two: The Seduction of Regret, and began to write:
✓ He is unsettled. Keep him that way.
✓ Do not let him apologize yet. Deny him release.
✓ Draw him closer. Make him need my approval.
✓ Never show the wound. Only the scar.
Her pen scratched against the paper, each word an ilabelled, each sentence a cut.
She closed the book and whispered, "The trap is working."
Outside, the city glittered in silence.
***
Arga (Dawn)
Sleep finally claimed him in the gray hours of morning, slumped in the armchair, the half-finished glass of brandy on the table beside him. When he woke, the city was already alive, the sun glaring against the windows.
His head ached, his body heavy. He dragged himself to the shower, letting the water pound against his skin, washing away the fog of the night.
But the thoughts remained.
Sharon.
Her beauty. Her silence. Her words about oysters and pain.
He shut off the water, gripped the sink, and stared into the mirror. The man staring back at him looked every bit the Bridgman heir: polished, powerful, controlled. But Arga saw the cracks. He saw the boy still lurking behind the man, the boy who had hurt someone who hadn't deserved it.
And he knew: he could not rest until he faced her again.
Whether to beg forgiveness or to prove himself worthy of it, he wasn't sure.
But he needed her.
***
Sharon (Nightfall)
That evening, Sharon stood on her balcony, a glass of wine in hand. The city pulsed beneath her, a living stage. Somewhere out there, Arga Bridgman was unraveling. She could feel it, the tug of his thoughts circling back to her like moths to flame.
She smiled faintly.
The swan had entered his dreams. And once inside, she would not leave.