Chapter 7
834 Words
The wine in Rosalind’s glass swirled lazily as she leaned against the railing, her fingers absently tracing the delicate rim. The night breeze carried the salty tang of the sea, but it wasn’t enough to mask the stench of trouble standing before her.
Nicholas Rivera, his wrist still throbbing from where she had twisted it moments ago, snarled in frustration. The humiliation burned deeper than the pain. A woman—this woman—had just put him in his place.
His lackeys, emboldened by his rage, took a step forward.
"Think you're tough, huh?" Nicholas sneered, gripping the bottle tighter in his left hand. "Let’s see how tough you are when—”
Crack!
Before he could finish his threat, Rosalind’s foot struck out in a blur. The impact sent the bottle flying from his grasp, shattering against the deck with a sharp explosion of glass and liquor.
The crowd nearby gasped. Some whispered, intrigued. Others took a step back, sensing that things were about to escalate.
Nicholas's face darkened, his bravado crumbling.
"You crazy—”
"Walk. Away." Rosalind’s voice was low but sharp as a blade.
For a long, tense second, Danny stared at her, breathing hard. His bruised ego battled against the instinct of self-preservation. Then, with a curse, he spat to the side and stormed off, his cronies scrambling after him like stray dogs.
Rosalind exhaled, rolling her shoulders. Pathetic.
She turned to leave—
But a pair of familiar, ice-cold eyes met hers from the upper deck.
Tristan Bajusz.
His sharp gaze locked onto her, unreadable yet piercing through the night like a dagger. The golden glow of the chandeliers above cast shadows over his chiseled face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the tension in his clenched fists.
Rosalind’s heart gave an unexpected jolt.
She hadn't seen that expression in years—not the dismissive indifference he usually wore, but something else. Something that almost looked like recognition.
Or maybe it was just fury.
She lifted her chin, refusing to look away.
Then, without warning, Tristan turned on his heel and disappeared into the VIP lounge.
From the side, Amilia sauntered up, watching him leave with a smirk.
"Well, that was interesting," she mused, sipping her champagne. "You sure you don’t want to play with that man’s heart a little? He seems rattled."
Rosalind scoffed, swirling the remnants of her wine. "Please. That man doesn’t have a heart to play with."
Amilia laughed. "That might be true… but for someone who's 'completely over him,' you sure got his attention."
Rosalind didn’t reply.
She was more preoccupied with the knot of unease twisting in her stomach.
Why had Tristan looked at her like that?
And why did it feel like something dangerous was about to unfold?
—
Meanwhile, Inside the VIP Lounge
Tristan paced near the bar, gripping his glass so hard he nearly shattered it. His friends murmured amongst themselves, but he barely heard them.
The image of Rosalind in that damn red dress—so different from the meek, obedient woman he had cast aside—burned in his mind.
This wasn’t the woman he had married.
This wasn’t the woman he had left.
She looked... untamed. Unapologetic.
And it unsettled him more than it should have.
Then, from the corner of the lounge, Emry Csany approached, her perfect lips curling into a practiced, gentle smile.
"Tristan," she cooed, slipping her hand into his, "why are you distracted?"
He forced a smirk, masking the storm in his chest. "Just business, Emry. Nothing important."
She tilted her head, studying him. Then, leaning closer, she whispered, "Shall we go? The surprise you planned for me is waiting."
Tristan hesitated.
Then, with one last glance toward the deck below—where Rosalind had already vanished into the crowd—he set his jaw.
"Yeah," he murmured. "Let’s go."
But even as he led Emry away, a bitter taste settled in his mouth.
Because for the first time since his divorce, he wasn’t entirely sure he had made the right choice.
—
On the Other Side of the Ship
Rosalind entered a dimly lit hallway, her heels clicking softly against the polished floors. She needed a moment. Away from Tristan’s gaze. Away from the memories clawing at the edges of her mind.
But as she reached for her room key—
A hand grabbed her wrist.
She spun around, instinct kicking in—only to be met with the piercing gaze of an unfamiliar man.
Tall, lean, and exuding a silent power, he stared down at her, his grip firm but not painful. His scent—a faint mix of leather and rare spices—felt oddly familiar.
"You," he said, his voice deep and deliberate.
Rosalind’s pulse spiked.
Something about him—about this moment—felt eerily like déjà vu.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
The man’s lips curved, his dark
eyes glinting.
"You don't remember me, do you?"
Rosalind's breath caught.
What the hell was happening tonight?
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