My ex showed up at my birthday party as if the last year had never happened.
Hugo found me alone on the terrace, smiled with that same fake tenderness, and said, “I miss you, baby.”
That word used to make me melt. Now it made my skin go cold.
“Don’t call me that,” I said, trying to pass him.
But he caught my wrist.
“Five minutes, Gabby. You never let me explain.”
I looked at his hand, then at his face. A year ago, I had found him in our apartment with another woman wearing my college sweatshirt. And still, he acted like my pain was something I owed him an apology for.
“Let go,” I whispered.
Before Hugo could answer, another hand closed around his wrist.
“That’s my baby you’re touching.”
The man beside me was Henrique Castro — the mysterious art dealer Nina had wanted me to meet all night. Dark suit, calm eyes, dangerous silence.
Hugo stepped back immediately. “Who are you?”
Henrique didn’t raise his voice. “The man telling you to leave.”
Hugo looked at me, waiting for me to deny it.
Instead, I lifted my chin.
“Yes,” I said. “I know him.”
Hugo’s face burned with humiliation. For once, he had no clever words. He left the terrace without looking back.
Inside, everyone had seen enough. Nina tried to apologize for inviting him, but I only said, “You chose his comfort over my peace.”
Then I walked out.
Henrique did not touch me. He simply walked beside me, steady and silent. At my door, he handed me his card.
“My gallery needs a restorer,” he said. “And you need people who respect the word no.”
Six months later, my first exhibition opened under my own name.
Hugo came too, standing in the back like a ghost from a life I had survived.
Henrique leaned closer and asked, “Still afraid?”
I looked at my paintings, the crowd, and finally at Hugo’s empty hands.
“No,” I said. “Not anymore.”
