The city was still humming from the gala. Tabloids buzzed with speculation: Why had Sharon Countbell and Arga Bridgman been seen dancing so closely? Why had Bridgman looked shaken, restless, almost undone?
It was the kind of gossip Sharon had intended to spark — enough smoke to make people look, but not yet enough fire to reveal the truth.
For now, the next act was private.
The most brutal wounds, after all, were those delivered behind closed doors, where no one could save the victim from himself.
***
Arga didn't expect to hear from her again so soon. He had barely recovered from the masquerade, his nerves frayed, his body buzzing with sleeplessness and too much alcohol.
But the message came anyway, short and commanding:
My place. Tonight. Eleven.
No preamble. No explanation.
And Arga obeyed.
He told himself he had no choice. But the truth was simpler: he wanted her more than he feared her.
***
When the door opened, Sharon wasn't in a gown this time. She wore a simple silk slip, pale as moonlight, her hair undone. The intimacy of her appearance startled him more than any jewel or designer dress could have.
The penthouse was dimly lit, shadows stretching across the polished floor. A single bottle of wine waited on the table, already uncorked.
"You came," she said.
Her tone carried no surprise. Only certainty.
"Of course I came," he whispered.
Sharon smiled faintly. "Of course."
***
She poured him a glass. His hand shook as he accepted it.
"You look tired," she observed, her eyes scanning his face.
"I don't sleep," he admitted. "Not anymore. Not without…" He stopped, embarrassed.
"Not without what?"
"Not without you."
She let the silence hang, watching him drown in it. Then she raised her glass and clinked it gently against his. "To honesty, then."
They drank.
***
Sharon leaned back in her chair, her gaze sharp and unyielding. "Tell me, Arga. When you see me now, what do you see?"
He swallowed hard. "I see the woman I can't live without."
"No," she said coldly. "That's what you want to see. But what do you really see?"
His voice broke. "I see the girl I hurt. The girl I ruined."
Her smile was thin, cruel. "Exactly."
She stood, circling behind him, her bare feet silent against the floor. "And that's the truth, Arga. No matter how much silk I wear, no matter how many cameras worship me, you'll always see the broken little girl in the schoolyard. You can't separate the two."
Her fingers brushed his shoulder again — the same tormenting gesture she had given him last time. He shivered violently.
"You want me," she whispered. "But you'll never have me. Because what you want doesn't exist. You're in love with your guilt."
He turned suddenly, reaching for her wrist, desperate. "No. I want you."
Her eyes glinted. "Then prove it."
***
She pulled her wrist free and walked to the window, the city sprawling out in glittering silence below.
"Tell me what you'd give up," she said softly.
"Anything," he said without hesitation.
"Your money?"
"Yes."
"Your company?"
"Yes."
"Your family name?"
"Yes."
His voice cracked, but his conviction was real.
Finally, she turned to face him, her eyes burning with dark amusement. "And your pride?"
That word struck him like a blow. Pride had been his shield, his mask, his inheritance. Without it, he was nothing but a boy caught in her snare.
He hesitated.
Her smile deepened. "Exactly."
***
She approached him slowly, deliberately, until she was standing inches away. His breath came ragged, his eyes fixed on hers.
Her lips hovered close to his, so close he could almost taste her. He closed his eyes, leaning forward—
And she stepped back.
The absence of her warmth was a knife.
Arga staggered, his chest hollowing with the denial.
Her laughter was soft, almost tender — but it was cruelty dressed as music. "You really thought I would give you that? After everything?"
"Sharon…" His voice cracked, broken.
"You don't deserve my lips," she whispered. "You deserve to drown in wanting them."
***
Something in him broke then. He dropped to his knees, hands clutching at his hair. "Please," he begged. "Please, just… don't do this. Don't leave me like this."
She looked down at him, a goddess surveying a fallen worshiper.
"Don't beg, Arga," she said coldly. "It doesn't suit you."
But he couldn't stop. Words spilled from him like blood. "I was a boy. I was cruel. I didn't know what I was doing. I see it now. I see what I did. And I can't live with it unless you—unless you…"
"Unless I what?" she asked, her tone sharp as glass.
"Unless you forgive me."
Sharon's face softened for the briefest second — but it was only an act. She crouched before him, close enough to let him think he had a chance.
"Forgiveness isn't mine to give anymore," she whispered. "You gave that away the day you laughed at me."
She stood, leaving him kneeling on the floor, humiliated and hollow.
***
When he finally lifted his head, she was already at the door, her robe swaying lightly with her steps.
"You should go," she said. "And remember — this is still only the beginning."
The door closed behind her, the lock clicking like the closing of a coffin.
Arga remained on his knees, his body shaking, his heart splintering.
For the first time in his life, Arga Bridgman wept without restraint.
***
In her bedroom, Sharon stood before her mirror, removing her earrings one by one. Her reflection looked radiant, victorious.
But when she leaned closer, she caught the faintest ghost of her younger self in the glass — the girl who had been mocked, broken, discarded.
"You see that, don't you?" she whispered to the reflection. "You see him breaking piece by piece. This is for you."
The ghost didn't answer.
But Sharon smiled anyway.
***
Epilogue – The Marionette
In the stillness of the night, Arga lay in his penthouse, staring at the ceiling. His body was numb, his mind aflame.
He felt the strings pulling at him — strings only Sharon could hold. Every movement, every thought, every breath now belonged to her.
He was no longer a man.
He was a marionette.
And she was the puppeteer.