Yours Again

I always imagined a quiet life.

A house with big windows, bookshelves lined up neatly, and a cup of tea that never gets cold.

And a simple love.

A love that doesn't make me fight every night, let alone question who I really am.

I think I almost achieved that tonight.

The crystal chandelier in the ballroom of Caleb's penthouse apartment reflects a soft glow. Smooth jazz music plays, mingling with the laughter of the guests who have come to celebrate our engagement. 

Caleb stood beside me, his smile as serene as ever. His hands wrapped around my waist as if I belonged to him, and I let him. I thought he was enough. Safe, stable.

I thought I was free from my ex-husband’s shadow.

Until a whisper flowed into my ear.

"You still wear my perfume." 

Cold. Softly. Too close.

My body stiffened instantly.

Even before the rich scent of vetiver and expensive tobacco mingled with the warm glow of fragrant candles filling the room, I knew that voice. I knew that energy, that charged presence, like the air just before lightning strikes. When I turned around, my breath hitched.

Reagan Milano.

He stands there, just inches away from me, wearing a black suit that's too perfect for the man I'm supposed to hate to death. 

Those eyes are still the same: dark blue, like a stormy sea, staring at me like two years never existed between us.

His smile was thin. 

Almost polite. 

Almost.

"Am I invited?" he asked softly, though we both knew the answer.

No. I didn't invite him. And I hope he never knows where I am, never remembers how I am.

But Reagan Milano isn't the kind of guy who forgets.

He never lets something... or someone... just go.

"How did you get here?" I asked, keeping my tone even in vain.

He bowed his head slightly like honoring someone in front of an altar. "I own this building, Gretta. This is my apartment. Your fiance’s just renting."

My eyes flashed, but I didn't show the surprise.

Sure. Because this world still belonged to him. Everything in it, even the air I breathe in this building... might as well be his.

"What do you want?" I whispered, my voice shaking with something I can't quite place. 

He lifted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter's tray, swirling it in his hand without drinking it. 

I can't breathe.

I couldn't think.

And the next thing I could do was grab him by the sleeve and drag him out of the room before anyone noticed.

Reagan says nothing as I take him to one of the private rooms at the back of the ballroom, a small reading room with large windows overlooking the city night. But I could tell he was enjoying this. 

His steps are relaxed, like I'm not dragging him but inviting him to dance.

As soon as we entered, I slammed the door behind me.

"What do you want?" I hissed, almost breathless, from the emotions exploding in my chest.

Reagan leaned her shoulders against the bookshelf, looking at me like someone who just found an old toy that was still interesting to play with. 

He didn't answer. He just stayed silent, studying every inch of my face like searching for something unseen.

His silence was more dangerous than words.

I folded my arms across my chest, trying to cover the tremors in my body. "You're not invited, Reagan."

He raised one eyebrow. "Is that so?" His tone was low, almost lazy, but full of sarcasm. "I guess I misheard because I believe this—" he glanced around the room, then back at me with a dangerous look, "—is my building. And you're standing on my property, Gretta."

I pressed my jaw. "That doesn't mean you can come over and—"

"Of course, I can," he cut in smoothly, his steps swinging closer. "Just like I can let your fiancé stay here. Or... not."

I froze.

He smiled, satisfaction etched on his face as he caught the change in my expression. "Oh, don't look at me like that. I won't kick him out... as long as I'm still in a good mood."

My throat went dry. This was Reagan's game. He never stabbed right away, but he would let the knife touch my skin first, waiting until I was the one to flinch back.

I let out a sharp breath. "What do you want, Reagan?"

He came closer again. 

One step. 

Two steps.

I can smell his scent now. Vetiver, tobacco, something expensive and intoxicating.

He raises his hand slowly. For a moment, I thought he was going to touch my face. But no. Instead, his fingers travel up my neck... then down, along my shoulders, until they finally stop at the breast of my dress.

Right above the small crescent-shaped pendant.

He touches it with his fingertips.

This necklace—the one he gave me years ago. I thought I took it off a long time ago, but it's still hanging there, hidden under this satin dress.

Reagan chuckles. "You still have it."

I want to brush his hand away, but I can't move.

His gaze lingers on my face longer than it should. Then, without rushing, he dropped his hand and looked at me.

"I want something, Gretta," he said.

I swallowed. "What?"

He tilted his head slightly like a lion inspecting its prey. "Four months."

I blinked. "What?"

"The last four months as my wife." He repeated. Colder. More crushing.

My heart stopped beating for a moment.

I let out a short laugh, though my voice sounded bitter. "You've lost your mind."

He just smiled slightly.

"Do you want to get married again, Gretta?" Reagan stepped closer. "I'll let you. After four months with me."

I looked up, trying to read her eyes. "Why?"

He didn't answer.

But the smile remained, a cold smile that implied I had just entered into a game that only he knew the rules of.

I held my breath. "And if I refuse?"

"You won't refuse." He tucked both hands into his pants pockets. His gaze was calm, but his voice was like daggers piercing my bones.

I wanted to argue. I wanted to say that I didn't care about him anymore. I already had a new life. 

But I was tongue-tied.

Because I know something more dangerous than Reagan forcing me to stay with him for four months... is Reagan knowing I won't be able to resist.