The Gala at Fox Hollow

Elena smoothed the silk of her emerald gown, the fabric cool against her heated skin. The charity gala at Fox Hollow Estate glittered with possibility—and danger. Three years since she'd last seen him, since the Berlin office incident that nearly destroyed both their careers.

Then she spotted him across the ballroom. Thomas. Still bearing that infuriating crooked smile, still moving through crowds like he owned every room he entered. He'd been a corporate spy then, stealing trade secrets for competing firms. She'd been his handler,直到 she discovered he was playing both sides.

Now he was laughing with some tech CEO's wife, his hand possessive on her lower back. Elena's chest tightened—not jealousy, she told herself. Just old anger, stubborn as a stain.

"You look like you're plotting murder, darling."

She turned to find Gregory, her current partner, offering her champagne. He was everything Thomas wasn't: steady, transparent, the kind of man who didn't play games. He knew about her past with Thomas. It was why he'd come tonight.

"Just reminiscing," Elena said, accepting the glass. "Thomas is here."

Gregory's jaw tensed. "The fox?" A nickname they'd given Thomas, for his cunning ways.

"The fox," she confirmed. "And unless I'm mistaken, he's working the room again. Look—he's already moved from the CEO's wife to the venture capitalist. Gathering intel, planting seeds."

Gregory nodded, eyes narrowing. "Want me to intervene?"

"No." Elena watched Thomas charm his next target. "I handled him once. I can do it again."

"You almost didn't, last time."

"Almost doesn't count." She set down her champagne. "Here's how we'll outfox him: you approach the VC, establish our firm's credibility. I'll engage Thomas, remind him of certain... files I still have from Berlin. Files that could resurface if he interferes with our merger talks."

"Risky."

"Calculated." She glanced at Thomas. "He thinks he's the hunter. He's about to learn he's been the prey all along."

As Elena moved through the crowd toward him, Thomas noticed. His eyes widened fractionally—recognition, then calculation, then something softer. Regret?

She didn't let herself hope. Some wounds don't heal. They just scar over, and you learn to bear the weight.