Matilda's Pov 

I stood near the edge of the banquet hall, my fingers wrapped tightly around the stem of a crystal flute filled with untouched champagne that a waiter had just served me. 

The soft hum of the orchestra playing in the background clashed with the heavy storm brewing inside me. Golden light shimmered from the chandeliers above, casting a surreal glow across the sea of sequins, satin, and polished smiles.

I had become practicing the art of avoidance—something marriage had taught me far too well. But tonight, it wasn’t just Gabriel’s eyes I was avoiding. It was his mother’s smug face and Aria’s pitifully fake elegance that sent bile climbing my throat. And yet, they stared. As if they couldn’t believe I was here, like I’d shown up to a wedding. I hadn’t been invited to wear white.

I could feel them burning holes in the back of my dress. I didn't dare turn around at first, but I knew. Every sip they took, every whisper they muttered behind gloved fingers, it was about me.

They were trying to make sense of my presence here. Trying to piece together how the woman Gabriel kicked to the curb was now walking among kings and billionaires, dressed in designer couture and welcomed into high society.

But I gave them nothing. Not a glance. Not a flinch.

Let them choke on me.

I pretended to be fascinated by the wine list on a gold-embossed menu, my reflection smirking faintly back at me from the polished surface of the marble bar. I sipped the champagne, still untouched on my tongue, bitter and dry. And still—they stared.

And then he moved.

I sensed him before I saw him, the shift in the room’s energy like an incoming storm cloud. Gabriel’s cologne, once so familiar it was nauseating, assaulted my nostrils before his voice even reached my ears.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, arrogance dripping like venom. “What are you doing here, Matilda? "This isn’t a place for poor riffraffs.”

I turned slowly, finally meeting his eyes.

And I wondered how I ever fell for a man like this.

Everything about him reeked of rot: his smug smile, the slick way he ran his fingers through his black over-gelled hair, the arrogance in his stance that hadn’t changed even after our divorce. It was like seeing a painting I once thought was beautiful, only to realize it was nothing but a smudged, fraudulent imitation.

There was no heartbreak anymore.

Only disgust.

And disbelief that I had ever been so blind.

My mother warned me about him. She saw through him instantly from afar while I was naïve, love-starved, stubborn. I defended him like a fool. Clara Geal, sharp as ever, had called him a low-class parasite.

Now I could see it.

And I didn’t owe him an answer.

So I said nothing.

I walked right past him, like he was no more than a wrinkle in my dress, and made my way toward the bar. The sound of my heels was the only declaration I needed.

But Gabriel wasn’t done.

He reached for me, fingers curling around my wrist with just enough pressure to reignite old memories—ones I’d buried deep. His grip wasn’t painful yet, but it was threatening in its familiarity.

“You better not embarrass me here,” he hissed under his breath, his voice trembling with something darker than anger. “Because then you’ll know who I truly am.”

I froze.

And for a brief moment, the music felt distant, the surrounding conversations a blur of meaningless noise.

I stared at his hand on mine.

The same hand that once promised me safety. The same hand that tore it all away.

And I yanked it off with a sharp twist, my voice low but crystal clear.

“Go fuck yourself, Gabriel,” I said, each syllable slicing through the air. “Go to the whore you left me for. Or better still—go crawl back into your horrible mother.”

His eyes widened—not with surprise, but rage.

A flush of red crept up his neck, his jaw clenched so tight I could hear his teeth grind. He wasn’t used to this version of me. The one who no longer cowered. The one who had nothing left to lose.

And for a second—a full, chilling second—I thought he might hit me.

Right here. In front of everyone.

We locked eyes.

I saw it there, burning behind his glare—the same rage that had simmered behind closed doors when I didn’t shrink, when I dared to question him, when I refused to play the sweet docile wife. He hated this new version of me.

Because this version of me didn’t need him.

I didn’t flinch.

I didn’t cower.

If anything, I stood straighter, watching the storm boil beneath his skin. I saw his fingers twitch slightly at his side, like he was weighing the cost of violence in public. I readied myself—not out of fear, but because I knew exactly what kind of man he was.

A man who tossed his wife aside for his mistress and didn’t care that he hurt her in the process.

He wouldn’t dare strike me here. Not now. Not in front of everyone.

His mother was still watching from across the hall, her lips parted mid-snarl, likely crafting the perfect insult to spit my way. Aria lingered awkwardly beside her, chewing on her bottom lip like a confused child witnessing a fight she didn’t fully understand, unsure whose side she was meant to be on.

I was already tired of the spectacle. I turned to walk away.

But Gabriel grabbed my hand again, his grip tight and seething.

“You are lucky people are watching, but you are not out of the woods yet. I will teach you a

 Lesson for talking to me like that,” he hissed through clenched teeth, fury radiating off him.