A sleek black Audi R8 cut through the boulevard like a whisper of power, sunlight dancing on its obsidian frame. Inside, a man sat with one hand on the leather wheel, the other lazily skipping through radio channels—until he paused. There it was again. That song. The one that felt like a memory wrapped in smoke, haunting his mornings like a ghost with unfinished business.
Jason Blackwood's sharp jaw clenched. The corners of his lips twitched downward in thought. On the passenger seat, his Siamese cat, Biscuit, let out a soft meow, blinking at him with soulful, glass-blue eyes.
"You still love this one, huh?" Jason murmured, parking outside a five-star rooftop restaurant. "You've got better taste than half this city."
Biscuit purred, tail flicking as if in agreement.
---
(Flashback Begins)
An orange Lamborghini Revuelto pulled up before the towering glass entrance of an exclusive skyscraper. The world slowed down. Flashbulbs exploded like fireworks as security in tailored suits swarmed.
The car door opened, and Jason Blackwood stepped out.
A tailored black Brioni suit hugged his athletic body like second skin. His jet-black hair was sleekly styled, though one rebellious strand dangled artfully over his brow. He wore aviator sunglasses, but the sheer gravity of his presence made people avert their gaze. He didn't walk—he glided, exuding authority that came from power, money, and mystery.
"Mr. Blackwood! Over here!"
"Is it true about the overseas merger?"
"Are you dating the Italian heiress?"
He ignored the chaos, his security team carving a path through the media storm, until the world once again bent to his silence.
---
(At The Lavish Pearl Restaurant)
In a private corner, Vivienne Cross tapped her ruby-red nails against her wine glass like a metronome of rising irritation.
"I swear if she doesn't show in the next two minutes…" she muttered.
Lila Hastings, effortlessly glamorous in a silk jumpsuit, rolled her eyes. "Relax, Viv. Let me call her again—"
"No need."
The voice was soft. Cool. Unbothered.
Both women turned—and froze.
Standing just inside the entrance was a vision in sculpted grace and effortless poise. She wore a designer nose mask and oversized sunglasses, hiding half her face—but the confidence in her posture made her glow.
With a slow, dramatic flair, she removed her shades.
"Elma?" Lila gasped.
"Elma Reyes?" Vivienne choked.
The woman gave a subtle, dimpled smile. "The one and only."
The girls rushed her, squealing, hugging, unable to believe their eyes. A full year had passed since Elma vanished into the glittery world of Canadian fame—and now she was back, more stunning than ever.
"You look insane!" Vivienne said, inspecting her like a designer item she'd been dying to get her hands on.
"Goddess-tier," Lila added. "You're literally glowing."
Elma laughed softly, taking her seat like she belonged on a throne. Her skin shimmered under the soft lighting, and her hourglass silhouette turned heads even in a room full of rich, beautiful people. She was dressed simply, but it was the kind of simplicity that screamed understated power.
"You two haven't changed," she said with a knowing smile.
Vivienne waved over the waiter. "We saved up for this place, babe. You better eat like a queen."
"I'm just happy to see you both," Elma replied. "Canada was… good." Her voice dipped a little at the end, enough for Lila to glance at her curiously.
"You were always beautiful, but now?" Vivienne clicked her tongue. "You look like a Vogue cover came to life."
Elma gave a modest laugh and reached for her water.
Soon, wine bottles popped. Glasses clinked. Laughter grew. But when Vivienne poured her a glass of Dom Pérignon, Elma hesitated.
"I… I don't really drink."
"She's still like that?" Lila blinked. "Babe, it's one glass. Come on."
They had forgotten. Of course they had.
She's allergic. And more than that—it reminded her of the night her world shattered.
Still, not wanting to dampen the mood, Elma took a sip—just a single one—before politely switching to water. Her friends didn't notice. Or maybe they didn't care.
---
(Elsewhere in the Lavish Pearl — Jason)
Jason Blackwood sat alone in the velvet-secluded VIP booth, skimming through reports while sipping aged Bordeaux. His phone vibrated.
Mom: "You should've had breakfast at home, Jason."
Jason: "If I had, I'd be dodging reporters in pajamas."
Another buzz.
Assistant: "Mr. DuPanache has arrived."
Jason sighed, standing up with a half-full bottle in hand. "Tell him I'll be five minutes."
He exited the booth, adjusting his Rolex as he strolled down the corridor—focused, poised, unreachable.
---
(Collision Course)
Elma excused herself and headed toward the restroom, heels echoing against the marble flooring. She didn't ask for directions—her pride wouldn't let her. Her head spun a little from the wine.
Jason turned a corner, phone at his ear.
"Delay the Hong Kong call. I'm not dealing with their drama before noon—"
SMACK.
They collided—hard. Jason's shoulder slammed into her, his uncapped bottle sloshed deep red wine across her pristine white dress. The liquid bloomed like blood.
"Ah!" Elma gasped, stumbling back.
Jason barely flinched. He kept walking, murmuring into his phone, completely unaware—or uncaring—of what just happened.
She stood there, stunned.
Soaked. Stained. Forgotten.
Her fingers trembled slightly as they clutched the fabric.
He didn't even look at me.
Her jaw tightened.