A Battle of wills

Her jaw tightened. Fine. But I don't have a dress. Or shoes.

Savannah grinned. Don't worry, sweetheart. I've got that covered.

Charlotte stood in front of the mirror, her reflection barely recognizable.

The dress was deep navy, years old, the fabric stretched just a little too tightly across her hips. It had been her mother's once, saved for occasions she could never afford. The neckline dipped lower than she would've liked, the slit daringly high. It was a stark contrast to the sharp, polished silhouettes of the women who would be at the gala tonight.

She felt like an imposter.

Savannah, however, seemed pleased. You look stunning.

Charlotte crossed her arms. I look desperate.

Savannah rolled her eyes. Desperate is sitting at home, drinking cheap wine, and stalking his social media.

Charlotte shot her a glare.

Savannah laughed. Trust me, this is the right move.

Charlotte swallowed hard. And what if he doesn't recognize me?

Savannah's smile faltered for a second, but she recovered quickly. Then you make him.

Charlotte turned back to the mirror, ignoring the uneasy twist in her stomach.

Tonight, she would face Jackson Whitmore. Whether he wanted to see her or not.

The Whitmore Gala was a spectacle of wealth.

Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, casting an opulent glow over the ballroom. Waiters in crisp black suits weaved through the crowd, silver trays balanced with champagne flutes. The scent of expensive perfume and power filled the air, thick and overwhelming.

Charlotte hesitated at the entrance.

The doorman eyed her. Name?

Her heart pounded. Charlotte She hesitated, then quickly added, Marlowe.

He scanned the guest list, his brow furrowing.

Panic flashed through her. This was insane. She should turn around, walk away

Excuse me, a voice cut in.

Charlotte turned, eyes widening as Savannah, now clad in a sleek black dress, stepped forward with a dazzling smile.

She's with me, Savannah said smoothly.

The doorman hesitated, then nodded, stepping aside.

Charlotte let out a shaky breath. What the hell was that? she whispered as they stepped inside.

Savannah winked. Backup plan.

The room was a sea of wealth and influence. Men in tailored suits murmured over cocktails, women draped in diamonds tossed their heads back in laughter. Every face was polished, every movement effortless.

Charlotte felt like an outsider.

Savannah nudged her. Alright, find him.

Charlotte's fingers tightened around the clutch in her hand. She scanned the room, but Jackson was nowhere in sight.

She exhaled sharply. Maybe this had been a mistake. Maybe

Didn't think I'd ever see you again.

Charlotte froze.

The voice was familiar, rich and smooth, but laced with something sharp.

She turned, pulse hammering.

And there he was.

Jackson Whitmore.

Jackson stood before her, taller than she remembered. He had always been imposing, but now? He was sharper, every edge honed to perfection. The tuxedo he wore fit him like a second skin, effortlessly elegant.

His hair was darker, slicked back, making his chiseled features even more striking. But it was his eyes those piercing, ice blue eyes that sent a chill down her spine.

Charlotte swallowed. Jackson.

His expression didn't shift. Charlotte Marlowe. He said her name like it was a foreign concept, something long buried.

She forced a breath. It's been a while.

His lips curved, but there was no warmth in it. Has it?

The air between them crackled, years of unfinished conversations and unspoken words hanging heavy.

Charlotte lifted her chin. I see you're still good at pretending.

Jackson's eyes darkened slightly, but his face remained unreadable. And you're still crashing events you don't belong at.

Her stomach twisted, but she refused to let it show. I had an invitation.

He arched a brow. Did you?

Savannah cleared her throat beside her. Actually, I

Jackson's gaze flicked to Savannah, dismissing her instantly before settling back on Charlotte. You shouldn't be here.

Anger flared in her chest. And why is that?

Because I don't have time for ghosts.

The words cut, sharper than she expected. But she refused to flinch.

She took a slow step forward. Funny. I was thinking the same thing.

For the first time, something flickered in his gaze. A crack in the armor.

But it was gone just as fast.

He exhaled, shaking his head. Go home, Charlotte.

Her nails dug into her palm. Not until we talk.

There's nothing to talk about.

Maybe not for you.

He held her gaze, and for a moment, something heavy passed between them.

Then he stepped back. Enjoy the gala.

And just like that, he turned.

Charlotte watched him walk away, her pulse roaring in her ears.

He wasn't going to make this easy.

But neither was she.