The cameras were already waiting.
I stepped out of the Bentley, the flashbulbs firing like they were trying to blind me into feeling something. I didn't. Not tonight. Not anymore.
The gala was predictable—velvet ropes, champagne towers, and people pretending their lives weren't falling apart behind designer smiles. I adjusted my cufflinks, gave the photographers a smirk they'd call "devastating" in tomorrow's headlines, and walked into the chaos like I owned it.
Because I did.
Until I saw her.
Rachel.
She stood near the entrance in a silver gown that clung to her desperation. Her eyes locked onto mine, and I felt the shift in the room. The crowd sensed it. They always did. Drama was currency here, and Rachel was about to make a withdrawal.
"Julian," she said, breathless. "You didn't return my calls."
I didn't stop walking. "That's usually a sign."
She grabbed my arm. Her nails dug in—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind me she used to know how.
"We need to talk," she hissed. "You can't keep pretending like I didn't matter."
I turned to her slowly, deliberately. The cameras were already zooming in. I leaned close, voice low enough to sting.
"You mattered. Past tense."
Her face didn't move, but I saw it—the flicker in her eyes, the crack in her mask. She wasn't here for closure. She was here to be seen. To be relevant. To be mine again.
"You're cruel," she whispered.
"No," I said. "I'm just done."
I walked away, leaving her in the spotlight she used to crave. The crowd murmured. The tabloids would eat it up. Julian Black shuts down ex in public showdown. I could already see the headline.
Inside, the music swelled. Crystal chandeliers shimmered overhead. I grabbed a drink from a passing tray and downed it in one smooth motion.
I didn't feel triumphant. I felt... nothing.
And that was the problem.
---
I found my usual corner—dimly lit, away from the stage, where the noise blurred into background static. A few familiar faces nodded at me. Models. Influencers. Men who wore their egos like cufflinks. I gave them the same smile I always did. The one that said, I'm here, but I'm not staying.
"Julian," someone called. I turned to see Porter Quinn, my pretend girlfriend for last month's press cycle, gliding toward me in a backless emerald dress.
"Still pretending we're a thing?" I asked, sipping my drink.
She winked. "Only when the cameras are rolling."
I liked Porter. She understood the game. No strings, no expectations. Just headlines and heat.
"You're trending again," she said, showing me her phone. "Rachel's meltdown is already viral."
I glanced at the screen. My face, her tears. The perfect cocktail for public consumption.
"She's persistent," I muttered.
"She's obsessed," Porter corrected. "And you love it."
I didn't answer. Because maybe I did. Maybe I liked being wanted, even if I didn't want back.
---
Later that night, I stepped out onto the balcony. The city stretched below me—glittering, indifferent. I lit a cigarette, even though I didn't smoke. It was just something to do with my hands.
I thought about Rachel. About the way she used to look at me like I was the answer to every question she never asked. About the way I used to believe her.
I thought about my parents, who'd probably call tomorrow and ask why I couldn't just settle down. About the articles that called me "emotionally unavailable" like it was a diagnosis.
And I thought about the emptiness. The quiet that came after the parties. After the women. After the headlines.
I didn't know what I was waiting for.
But I knew it hadn't arrived yet.