After Us

Present Day—Ghost from the Past

And Layla freezes… Her heart pounds in her chest, pride on one side and fear on the other, as he makes his way to her stand; watching him get near every second feels like hours, as if he’s giving her time to get ready.

It isn't the gala she notices any longer—The noise, laughter. All of it falls away. Her world narrows down to Evan:

His sharp suit clings to his frame, the composed expression, and those manipulative eyes locked directly on her.

All of her plans for the night—or rather, all of Daniel’s plans for her tonight—to celebrate, to network, to have fun—all breaking down right in front of her.

She compresses the grip of her clutch, desperate for some kind of anchor.

Evan.

This is not happening. Not tonight. Not ever.

What is he doing here? Did he know she would be here? And if he didn't? Why is he walking straight toward her?

Her first instinct is to turn and run, to flee so far from the storm his sight will bring. But Layla’s feet stay glued to the marble floor. She won’t run—not again.

The space between them shrinks, and the noise of the room replaces the rush of blood in her ears. She straightens her posture, forcing her lips into a neutral line.

She won’t let him see that he still has this effect on her.

“Hi Layla,” His voice cuts through the air, lower than she recognises, softened by something she cannot yet define.

Her tummy churns. The deep tone is unfamiliar, almost, but there’s no mistaking the undertones. It’s the same voice that used to calm her.

“Evan,” she hears his name come out smoothly, keeping her tone steady. She didn't trust herself to say more.

His eyes search hers, studying her in a way that makes her uncomfortable. Finally, he breaks the silence.

“It’s been a long time—seven years!.”

“Who’s counting?” she snaps. It comes out sharper than she intended, but she doesn’t regret it. If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. He’s always been good at that—masking what he’s really thinking.

“Yeah, I know.” He nods, conceding her point.

“You’re beautiful as always.” He allows a brief, wry smile, but his gaze doesn’t falter. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight. But…seeing you here, I couldn’t just walk away.”

“What are you doing here, Evan?” she shoots. Her pulse races, but her voice doesn’t show it.

“Gala invitation,” he replies,

Her eyes narrow. She doesn’t buy it.

“But…I couldn't leave without saying hi. After all this time,” he completed.

“Good to know.”

Evan lost words to say, “I was hoping we could… Maybe talk,” he finally says.

“Talk?” she echoes. “What on earth could we possibly have to talk about?”

For a moment, his confidence cracks. She sees something in his eyes—remorse, maybe? Or guilt? Whatever it is, it’s fleeting, gone before she can decide if it was real.

“I owe you an apology,” he says, surprising her.

Lay lets out a bitter laugh. “An apology? Now? After all this time? What brought this on—a guilty conscience? Or did you just run out of people to hurt?”

He winces, and she feels a twisted kind of satisfaction watching him flinch.

“I know I hurt you,” he says, his voice softer now. “And I know I can’t undo what happened. Thanks to this night, because I’ve been trying to get in touch to share a piece of my mind and give you a better explanation.

Layla jerks her head, trying to process his words. What game is he playing now? She’s not sure whether to believe him or to brace herself for the unavoidable manipulation. With Evan, there was always a catch.

“A better explanation to what exactly?” she repeats. “Why? So you can ease your conscience and go back to whatever life you’ve built? News flash, Evan: I’m fine without you. I don’t need your closure.”

“Layla…” He takes a step closer, and instinctively, she takes one back. His eyes flicker with hurt, though he masks it quickly. “It’s not about easing my conscience. I—”

“Layla.”

A new voice cuts through the tension. Daniel.

She breathes out sharply and turns, grateful for the interruption. There he is, stepping toward her, holding two glasses of wine.

“Everything okay?” Daniel asks, his brow furrowed. He hands her a glass and looks between her and Evan with mild curiosity.

Layla gave a faint smile. “Fine,” she lies.

Evan’s jaw tightens, his composure unravelling slowly.

Layla takes a sip from her glass, the wine sharp and grounding on her tongue.

“Hey.” Daniel turns, extending a hand. “I’m Daniel, Layla’s boyfriend.”

The word boyfriend hangs in the air like a gauntlet.

Evan’s face doesn’t betray much, but there’s a flicker of something—shock, maybe—and then he forces a tight smile. “Evan,” he says, grabbing Daniel’s hand briefly. “Nice to meet you.”

“I should go,” Evan says in a calm tone. “Enjoy your evening, Layla.” He nods at Daniel and steps away, vanishing into the crowd.

Layla exhales shakily, realising she’s been holding her breath. The noise of the gala flows back in, the music and laughter almost mocking her. She feels shaky, like the world has shifted beneath her feet.

Layla watches him go, her heart heaving with a mix of relief and something else—something she doesn’t want to name.

Daniel studies her for a while but doesn’t push it. He takes her hand, offering her a reassuring squeeze.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks gently, touching her arm.

“Yeah,” she lies again. Swallowing the lump in her throat, forcing herself to turn her face back to him. “He’s…just someone I used to know. Nothing important,” she replied, avoiding his eyes.

Daniel doesn’t look completely convinced, but he doesn’t press.

“You look worried, Babe. Do you want to get out of here?” he asks. We can head somewhere calm.”

Layla hesitates, looking around the glittering crowd. Evan is gone, but his presence lingers like a shadow in the corner of her mind.

“Yeah,” she responds finally, draining her glass. “Let’s go.”