UNDONE: The One I Could Not Tame

The One That Got Away

Arian Hartman sat in the backseat of a bulletproof Rolls-Royce Phantom, his gaze fixed on the window, his mind several miles away from the winding French roads.

Julian reviewed the itinerary.

"Hotel Étoile has prepared the presidential suite," Julian informed from the passenger seat. "Security has been briefed, and your schedule is clear until the gala."

Arian didn’t respond.

His focus was on the billboards that flashed past them.

He saw the feminine silhouette on the gala poster again. It was her posture. That spine. That neck. That curve of the shoulder. He almost said her name—but bit it back.

He hadn’t seen her in seven years.

She could be anywhere.

Or—she could be exactly where he was headed.

He adjusted his cuffs and loosened his jaw.

Let them come. Let the night bring what it may.

“You look tight,” Julian offered cautiously.

“I’m fine,” Arian murmured.

But he wasn’t.

The pressure. The weight of scandal. The power plays back at HQ. The curiosity swelling around the gala. And… the maddening possibility that the woman he’d buried in silence might be standing across from him again in front of hundreds of cameras.

Meanwhile, across the world, in Shanghai—

Raina’s heels clicked across polished floors as a crew followed behind her like shadows. Stylists. Assistants. A creative director yelling something in Italian. Cameras flashing. Hair flowing. Her face set in that unforgettable, editorial-perfect expression.

She was working a photo shoot for a global perfume house, her second shoot that day.

“Miss Dane!” Chloe called out from behind, phone in hand. “We’ve confirmed your flight to Montreux for the gala. Private jet. You’ll arrive mid-afternoon the same day.”

Raina exhaled. “Thank you.”

“Shanghai to Montreux in sixteen hours,” Chloe reminded her, handing her a chilled water bottle. “Sleep on the flight or your eyebags will cost us post-edit time.”

Raina cracked a rare smile.

She didn’t care about eyebags.

She sipped her water. “Make sure the dress arrives on time, it one of the highlights of the gala.” she told Chloe.

“Yes, ma’am. You’ll be in Montreux looking like the goddess they begged for.”

She cared about the fact that LVMH had called her “the face of a generation.” That she'd be standing where empires were watching. That she'd be surrounded by industry titans, fashion royalty, and more money than most saw in a lifetime.

Still… something tugged in her chest.

Not nerves. Not fear.

Back in Montreux, Arian's vehicle pulled up to Hotel Étoile. The grandeur of the establishment was evident, with its ornate architecture and opulent interiors.

Arian stepped out of the car, eyes hidden behind dark shades. Paparazzi stationed near the hotel didn’t recognize him at first. Then, the shouting began. The clicking. The questions.

“Mr. Hartman, any response to the actress’ claims?”

“Are the rumors true that LVMH invited you for image control?” a reporter shouted.

“Is it love, business, or damage control?”

Arian remained silent, his expression stoic, as he entered the hotel. Julian shielded him. Vance—waiting by the entrance—only nodded approvingly.

Inside, the ambiance was a blend of luxury and tranquility. He was escorted to his suite, where he finally found a moment of solitude. The silence was heavy, broken only by the soft echo of his footsteps. He looked up at the extravagant chandelier above the marble-floored lobby.

Standing by the window, he looked out over the city. The gala was more than just an event—it was a crossroads. Unbeknownst to him, Raina was on her way, and their paths were set to intersect once more.

Seven years ago, he’d left everything behind.

Now, everything was catching up.

He just didn’t know yet…

That she was too.

The LVMH Grand Gala had never looked more opulent. Golden lights bathed the glass-paneled venue overlooking the Montreux skyline, and billboards across the city teased the presence of two icons: the business mogul and the world’s most beloved model. Their names were kept secret, building a buzz that rippled from the red carpet to the boardrooms of Paris, New York, and Tokyo.

Inside, crystal chandeliers shimmered above an ocean of satin, silk, and tuxedos. The host stood beneath the spotlight, voice booming through the speakers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, our first honored guest has arrived.”

The entrance doors opened as security and press parted ways. A man stepped in, his presence palpable. Tailored midnight-black suit, brown glossy Oxfords, a sharp build under a white silk shirt—unbuttoned just enough to suggest power without effort. His face was carved in fierce lines, and his eyes glinted with fire and precision. Every step of his echoed authority, flanked by his two shadows—Vance Everly and Julian Thorne.

A collective murmur hummed across the room. That’s him. The Hartman heir.

Arian Hartman approached the stage, accepting the applause with a subtle nod. He gave a firm handshake to the hosts before stepping up to the mic. His voice—cool, deliberate, deep—sliced through the room.

“Progress is not about control. It’s about collaboration. And I believe in building an empire that echoes long after us. I am honored to have been invited to the LVMH gala. I am very much interested in every sector as far as living is concerned, and that includes the fashion world, and the entertainment industry. They turn every moment into something memorable and something to take one off the edge.”

Applause. His father’s legacy now sat squarely on his shoulders. And it fit him like the tailored Tom Ford suit he wore.

He was led to his reserved table—front and center—where luxury and power collided. Waiters filled his glass with gold-label champagne. Camera flashes dimmed as the host returned to the stage.

“Now, our second special guest is currently running late due to an international commitment, but she will be joining us shortly…”

And just as the words left his mouth, the lights dimmed.

A few hours later, a single spotlight turned toward the grand entrance.

And then—she walked in.

Short, wet-styled dark hair clung to her sculpted face like ink brushed over porcelain. A dazzling white couture dress clung to her figure like it had been sewn onto her body. Every curve, every turn of her neck screamed grace and controlled power. Her diamond necklace caught the light like stardust. A red-bottomed heel clicked against the marble floors with each step. Her clutch, black and understated, hung from her fingers as if it was too privileged to be held.

She walked like she wasn’t just used to attention—she owned it.

And she had no idea Arian was watching.

Raina.

His breath caught. The crowd’s whispers blurred. The world tilted just slightly.

Raina stepped onto the stage with poise, her assistant Chloe trailing behind like a quiet shadow. The host greeted her, clearly starstruck. And yet, she remained composed, polite, radiant.

“I’m truly honored to be here tonight, fashion has always been a part of me.” she said, her voice velvet-smooth with subtle warmth. “LVMH has consistently inspired the industry with innovative and inclusive fashion. I was walking a runway less than twelve hours ago and booked the fastest flight here. My luggage hasn’t even arrived—but I refused to miss this moment. This dress was specially designed for me by Mr Lacrosse, one of the founders and Creative Director of LVMH. I truly appreciate the brains behind this and I wouldn't miss it for the thr world.”

The audience laughed and clapped.

She smiled graciously, taking in the room.

One of the hosts leaned into the mic, “And perhaps, we should introduce you to—”

A staffer rushed up and whispered something to the host, who immediately paused and redirected their attention elsewhere. Raina was ushered off the stage with grace.

As she stepped down, Lacey Dupois emerged from the crowd like a shining arrow and rushed to Raina, enveloping her in a dramatic hug.

“You. Look. Divine,” Lacey whispered in her ear. “Paris is about to go blind.”

“Stop,” Raina smiled, “You look like Versailles lit itself just for you.”

Lacey dragged her across the hall toward a cluster of high-profile guests from fashion, politics, and entertainment. And through it all, Arian sat—stunned.

She was right there. Breathing the same air. Smiling, glowing, captivating.

She didn’t see him.

His palms curled.

He rose suddenly. Julian followed at a respectful distance, but the look on his face was knowing.

Outside the hall, Arian ran a hand through his hair. The cold air bit at his lungs.

“What the hell am I doing?” he muttered, pacing beside the limo bay.

Julian leaned against the stone wall. “If I knew, I’d tell you.”

Arian exhaled hard. I would like to go home, I think I would rather stay.”

Julian tilted his head. “Sir, are you fine or do you need a nurse?”

Arian looked up, resolve building in his throat.

“I’m going back in.”

He returned to the hall, his heart thundering. The lights seemed dimmer, the music louder.

And her seat?

Empty.

Raina was gone.

Just like that.

Arian froze. His jaw clenched. The universe, again, played its cruel joke.

Julian placed a quiet hand on his shoulder. “If you told me what the problem was, I would probably be able to help deal with it.”

Arian’s eyes swept the room.

“She’s still here. Somewhere,” he muttered.

But she wasn’t.

And in that moment, with gold light glowing all around him and glasses clinking in the distance, Arian realized:

He wasn’t in control anymore.

The past never stays buried.

And love—real love—never leaves quietly.