Chapter 8 - A Dance With The Past

Marietta’s POV

The night should have ended here.

I had played my part. I had smiled, I had accepted my award, and I had made my statement. I should have been able to slip into the background now, enjoy the rest of the evening with a glass of champagne and a few well-placed deflections.

But fate—or perhaps something far more cruel—had other plans.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the host’s voice rang out, smooth and confident. "Before we continue with our celebrations, we have a special moment planned."

A hum of curiosity spread through the ballroom. My fingers curled tighter around my champagne glass.

"As you all know, tonight is about honoring excellence, resilience, and the undeniable power of talent." The host smiled warmly, looking out over the crowd. "And what better way to mark this occasion than with a dance?"

A polite ripple of applause.

I exhaled quietly. Fine. A dance. Let them twirl around in overpriced gowns and polished shoes. It had nothing to do with me.

But then—

"And who better to share this first dance than the woman of the night—Miss Marietta Monroe!"

My breath caught.

No.

The applause surged, and I felt dozens of eyes snap toward me. My smile froze, but I kept my expression smooth, controlled.

This was bad.

I had been dodging direct confrontation all evening, keeping Michael at arm’s length, playing the game on my terms. But now?

Now, I was being pulled into the center of the stage.

And the worst part?

The host wasn’t done.

"And, of course, what is a dance without a partner?" The host chuckled, eyes gleaming with the thrill of spectacle. "It seems only fitting that she shares this moment with someone from her past—someone who, like her, has left an undeniable mark on this city."

A pause. A slow smile.

"Mr. Michael Whitmore."

A heavier silence fell over the room.

I felt it before I saw it—the sudden shift in energy, the way whispers broke out like ripples in water.

Michael stiffened beside me.

I turned, and our eyes met.

His jaw was tight, his fingers curled into a fist, but the moment the cameras turned toward him, his face was unreadable.

For the first time tonight, neither of us had a choice.

Shit.

With all eyes on us, refusing would make headlines. It would confirm the rumors, feed the speculation, turn this event into something far messier than either of us wanted.

And I refused to be seen as the one who ran away.

So, with a slow breath, I placed my champagne glass on a passing tray, lifted my chin, and stepped forward.

Michael did the same.

The crowd parted as we made our way to the center of the ballroom, the polished marble floor gleaming beneath the golden light.

A soft melody began to play. The kind of song designed to make people believe in fate, in love stories that never truly end.

The irony made me want to laugh.

Michael extended a hand.

I hesitated—just for a second—before slipping mine into his.

The moment we touched, I felt it.

The past. The pain. The history we could never erase.

His fingers tightened slightly, pulling me closer, his other hand settling at my waist. I placed mine on his shoulder, keeping the distance between us measured.

Controlled.

But Michael had always been good at breaking through my walls.

"Don’t overthink it," he murmured, his voice low enough for only me to hear. "It’s just a dance."

I forced a small smile. "Then try to keep up."

He exhaled through his nose, almost like a quiet laugh, and then we began to move.

The steps were smooth, practiced. Our bodies moved in sync, following a rhythm we hadn’t shared in years.

It should have been easy.

But nothing about this was easy.

Michael’s grip was firm but not forceful. His eyes never left mine, but they were searching, filled with something unreadable.

I refused to let myself sink into it.

"You should have corrected him," he said suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper.

I blinked. "What?"

"Harris," he bit out. "You should have told him you weren’t a Whitmore anymore."

Ah.

So it really was bothering him.

I tilted my head slightly, pretending to think. "Strange," I mused. "I don’t recall you correcting him either."

Michael’s jaw clenched. "Marietta—"

"I thought we were not meant to talk about this again," I interrupted smoothly.

He didn’t respond. Not at first.

Instead, he guided me through another turn, his movements precise, controlled.

But his eyes—

His eyes told another story.

And then—just as the music reached its crescendo—he did something I didn’t expect.

He leaned in, his lips barely an inch from my ear.

And he whispered, "I never signed the divorce papers."