Scarlett's legs moved almost on their own, her heart hammering against her ribs. Nicolas stood a few steps away, the auburn-haired woman — Alisa Meng — holding his arm, laughing softly. He looked at her, yes, but only with that cold, indifferent gaze. As if she were a stranger who dared to step into his world.
Scarlett's chest tightened. She had imagined this reunion a thousand times, but seeing him like this… so untouchable, so untouchably calm… it made her want to scream.
Summoning every ounce of courage, she took another step forward. Her eyes fixed on him, unwavering. She opened her mouth, ready to speak his name…
Suddenly, a shadow moved.
Joanna. Alisa's friend, tall and elegant, her lips curling into a sly smile. In a heartbeat, she stepped in front of Scarlett, tilting her leg ever so slightly, trying to make Scarlett stumble in front of everyone.
Scarlett blinked. Surprise flickered through her, but she didn't falter. Instead of stepping back, she straightened her shoulders, chin up, and walked forward. Every eye in the workshop seemed to follow her now.
Her hand went to her wine glass without breaking her stride. And in a sudden, fluid motion, she tilted it — pouring the crimson liquid directly onto Joanna's pristine white dress. Gasps rippled through the room.
The hall fell silent for a second. The music faded into the background, replaced by the soft gasp of onlookers. Joanna stood frozen, scarlet wine dripping down her silver gown, her expression twisting from shock to rage.
The female lead straightened, her calm expression only fanning the flames of Joanna's anger. "Oops," she said softly, her lips curling into the faintest smile, "my hand must have slipped."
The crowd murmured — some amused, some shocked.
Before Joanna could lash out, a gentle, almost fragile voice broke the tension.
"Joanna, please… don't make a scene," said Alisa Meng, stepping forward like a peacemaker. Her voice was sweet, her gaze filled with false sympathy. The way she positioned herself — just slightly in front of the male lead — made it clear she wanted everyone to see her as the refined one among them.
The FL's eyes flicked toward her, reading through the act instantly.
"Oh, the perfect lady of the night speaks," she replied coolly, her tone edged with amusement.
The male lead said nothing. He just stood there — tall, composed, emotionless. His eyes briefly met the FL's, and something unreadable flickered in them — guilt? regret? Or maybe nothing at all.
The silence between them spoke louder than any words could.
Alisa noticed that moment, and her grip on his arm tightened. "You know her?" she asked softly, loud enough for others to hear, her smile so sweet it could poison honey.
The FL's chest tightened. She could feel all eyes on her — judging, whispering, measuring her against the woman beside him. The jealousy from the other women in the hall was almost tangible; they couldn't stand how effortlessly she stood there, graceful even in her simple gown, her beauty untouched by extravagance.
But she didn't flinch.
She looked directly into the male lead's eyes and said, "It's been a long time… hasn't it?"
His lips parted slightly, but no words came. Just that same indifferent gaze — cold enough to shatter the warmth that had once lived in her memories.
The tension was unbearable. The guests exchanged glances, sensing that the air around them was thick with an untold story.
And then, just before she could turn away, Alisa let out a soft laugh. "You must be mistaken, miss," she said sweetly. "He doesn't associate with… people like you."
A sharp silence followed.
But the FL only smiled — not the kind of smile that breaks, but the kind that warns.
"We'll see about that," she whispered under her breath, her eyes glinting with the promise of something dangerous.
As she walked away, the crowd parted for her — not out of respect, but out of curiosity and fear.
And the male lead? For the first time that night, his hand trembled slightly, the wine swirling in his glass.