Scarlett walked out of the ballroom, her heels clicking against the marble floor, every step echoing the storm inside her. The night air outside the grand hall of Veloce Morte Company was sharp, brushing against her flushed cheeks. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself, but her chest still burned.
She couldn't believe what just happened. The man she had loved for years, the one she had waited for — Nicolas Volkov — had looked straight through her like she was a stranger. His eyes had been cold, indifferent… but there was something else in them too. For a moment, just a heartbeat, she thought she saw confusion. Like he was fighting with something buried deep inside.
But then that woman — Alisa Meng — had stood next to him, smiling in that perfect fake way, holding his arm like she owned him. And when everyone had stared after Scarlett because of what happened with Joanna, Alisa had smirked. That smirk burned more than the wine Scarlett had poured.
Scarlett gripped her bag tighter. "I didn't come here for this," she muttered under her breath. "I came here to prove myself."
The night sky of Italy stretched wide above her. The plaza lights shimmered like stars fallen to earth. People passed by, laughing, talking in Italian she barely understood. But all she could think of was that one pair of eyes that had once looked at her with warmth — and now with nothing.
Behind her, the door opened. She didn't turn. She didn't need to. Somehow, she felt it — that quiet, heavy presence she would recognize anywhere.
Nicolas Volkov.
He stepped out into the night, his black tuxedo jacket still sharp against the pale glow of the lights. His hand slipped into his pocket as he watched her from a few feet away. There was a strange pull in his chest — one he couldn't explain. He told himself it was curiosity. Just curiosity about the bold woman who had walked into a room full of elites and faced Alisa Meng without fear.
But when Scarlett brushed her hair back and looked up at the moon, Nicolas felt a stab of something deeper. Familiarity. Pain. Longing.
He frowned slightly. Why do I feel like I've seen her before?
Scarlett finally turned, maybe sensing his stare. Their eyes met for the first time without the crowd, without pretenses.
For a second, everything stopped.
Her heart thudded painfully. The man she had dreamed of for a decade was right there, under the silver light, his expression unreadable.
"Nicolas…" she whispered before she could stop herself.
His jaw tightened. That name — it felt heavy in his ears, like an echo from a past life. Something flickered in his gaze, but he masked it quickly with a faint, cold smile.
"You seem to know me," he said, voice low and steady. "But I don't recall ever meeting you."
Scarlett felt her throat tighten. The words cut deeper than any blade, but she forced a small smile. "Maybe you just forgot," she said softly. "But I never did."
He didn't respond. He just kept watching her, as if every word she said dug somewhere he didn't want to look.
Behind him, Alisa's voice broke the fragile silence. "Nicolas, darling! There you are."
Scarlett's expression froze.
Alisa walked over, pretending not to notice her, her red gown trailing behind like fire. "Let's go," she said sweetly, slipping her hand into his arm again.
Nicolas looked at Scarlett one last time. Something in his eyes darkened — regret? Interest? Or guilt? She couldn't tell.
He finally turned away, his voice calm. "Enjoy your evening, Miss…"
"Scarlett Rose," she said firmly.
He nodded once. "Miss Rose."
And with that, he walked away beside Alisa, the distance between them growing like an invisible wall. But even as Scarlett stood frozen under the moonlight, she knew one thing for certain — Nicolas Volkov might pretend not to remember her, but his eyes had betrayed him.
Because for just one fleeting second, she saw it. The same warmth from their childhood — buried, hidden, but still there.