Arga Bridgman had reached the point of no return.
Nights blurred into days. His reflection mocked him. His empire whispered about his failures. Every breath carried Sharon's name.
He could no longer wait for her to come to him. He would act — boldly, recklessly — to show her he was no longer the boy who mocked her but the man who would kneel for her.
It was madness. He knew it. But obsession had replaced reason.
And Sharon knew he was ready to destroy himself.
***
The idea came to him at dawn, when he sat at his desk surrounded by the ruins of another sleepless night.
A charity gala was scheduled that evening, hosted by the board of his own company. All the city's elite would attend: investors, politicians, artists, and, most importantly, Sharon Countbell.
Arga decided he would make his declaration there, before the eyes of society.
He would show Sharon he was no longer ashamed of his guilt. He would confess everything, expose himself, and offer her the crown of his redemption.
He imagined her face — shocked at first, then softened, touched, finally forgiving.
He didn't realize he was stepping into a snare she had already strung.
***
When Sharon heard whispers that Arga planned something "dramatic" at the gala, she smiled faintly.
She had laid the groundwork too carefully for this not to happen. Every look, every denial, every almost-touch had been designed to drive him here — into the open, where his weakness would be her spectacle.
The public strike she had been planning would need only the lightest of touches.
Arga would provide the rest himself.
***
The ballroom gleamed under chandeliers, golden light spilling across polished marble. The city's finest mingled, glasses of champagne raised, voices humming with polite gossip.
Sharon arrived in a crimson gown that clung like flame, her mask adorned with black feathers. Every camera turned toward her, every guest whispered her name.
Arga entered moments later, pale and gaunt in his midnight suit, his mask plain and severe. He looked like a ghost haunting the living.
And he never took his eyes off her.
***
As the evening reached its height, Arga strode to the stage, ignoring the murmurs that followed him. The orchestra faltered into silence.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, his voice raw, "I won't waste your time with pleasantries. Tonight, I have something far more important to say."
The crowd stilled, curiosity sparking. Sharon remained at the edge of the room, her lips curved in the faintest smile.
Arga's gaze locked on her.
"I stand before you as a man stripped bare. My wealth, my name, my company — none of it matters if I cannot face the truth of who I was, and what I did."
Gasps rippled. Investors shifted uncomfortably. This was not the kind of confession anyone expected from a Bridgman.
"I was cruel," Arga continued, his voice breaking. "As a boy, I mocked someone who did not deserve it. I destroyed her spirit for my own amusement. And yet… she rose. She became everything I was too blind to see. She became Sharon Countbell."
Every head turned toward her. The spotlight shifted, illuminating her crimson gown like spilled blood.
Arga extended a hand toward her. "Sharon, I beg you — before all of them — forgive me. Let me prove I am not the boy I was. Let me serve you, honor you, love you. Let me spend the rest of my life making amends."
The room fell into stunned silence.
***
For a long moment, Sharon said nothing. She let the silence stretch, let the tension twist the air until it was unbearable.
Then, slowly, she began to walk toward the stage.
The crowd parted for her, eyes wide, breath held. Each step of her heels clicked like the beat of a drum, drawing the entire room into the rhythm of her control.
She ascended the stage with grace, her gown catching the light. Arga's face lit with hope, his hand trembling toward hers.
And then, softly enough that only the microphone could catch it, she spoke.
"Arga," she said. "Do you think this is bravery?"
Confusion flickered in his eyes.
"Do you think this is redemption?" Her voice rose, ringing across the hall. "A speech, a spectacle, a desperate plea in front of your peers?"
Gasps swept the audience.
"You mocked me when I was defenseless. You broke me for sport. And now you want to parade your guilt like a crown, as if humiliation is something you get to choose?"
Her words sliced the air like a blade.
"You don't understand," Arga whispered, shaking.
"Oh, I understand perfectly." Sharon turned to the crowd, her voice steady, commanding. "This man thinks repentance is theater. That all he needs to do is kneel, and the sins of his past will vanish. But forgiveness is not a stage play. And I am not here to absolve him."
Her eyes locked on Arga's once more, cold and merciless. "You want me to forgive you? Then live with what you did. Carry it every day. Let it eat you alive. That will be your redemption."
The crowd erupted in murmurs, some horrified, others enthralled. Cameras flashed furiously.
Arga stood frozen, shattered.
Sharon turned her back to him and descended the stage.
***
Arga remained rooted in place, his hand still outstretched, trembling. The whispers of the crowd swelled like a storm around him.
Pathetic.
Humiliating.
Countbell destroyed him.
He could hear every word, every laugh.
Sharon didn't look back. She left the ballroom as calmly as she had entered, her crimson gown flowing like a trail of fire.
Outside, her car waited. She stepped inside, the door closing softly behind her.
Her reflection in the tinted glass smiled back.
The first blow had landed. The world had seen him fall.
But this was only the beginning.
***
Epilogue – The Stage Collapses
Long after the gala ended, Arga sat alone on the stage, the lights dimmed, the chairs empty.
The microphone still stood before him, silent and accusing.
His mask lay broken at his feet.
He pressed a hand to his chest, where the echo of her rejection still burned like a brand.
The stage that once elevated him had become his grave.
And the applause he had once craved was replaced by laughter that would haunt him forever.