Chapter 5 SPARKS

PAMELA'S POV

The tray in my hands tilts just a little. Just enough to make the champagne glasses clink against each other like they know I'm not supposed to be here.

I blink too fast. The lights are too bright. Or maybe it's just the way the chandeliers drip from the ceiling like frozen tears. Everything in this room sparkles except me.

And him.

He's standing near the edge of the ballroom like he owns the shadows. His hands resting casually in his pockets as if nothing here could ever touch him, his collar perfectly sharp like every detail was placed with intention, his smile soft in a way that feels practiced but impossible to read, and then there are his eyes-locked onto me with a kind of calm certainty, like he's been expecting me all along and nothing about this moment has caught him off guard

Like he was waiting.

I swallow hard, my throat tight like something's stuck there and I can't breathe right, so I turn my gaze away because looking at him feels like standing too close to a flame that already burned me once and left a mark I'm trying to hide.

I know I should turn around, pass the other way, and disappear into the crowd like a shadow fading at sunset, should let the tray in my hand guide me back to the rhythm of serving drinks, passing smiles, pretending like I belong here only as a ghost in uniform.

I tell myself I should keep moving and keep pretending I never saw him, never met him, never touched him, or let him touch the parts of me I don't let anyone see.

Most of all, I should keep pretending that night never happened, like it was someone else's story I overheard and not something that still lives under my skin every time I see him

"Fancy seeing you here," he says, like we're running into each other at a grocery store. Like I didn't cry myself to sleep after he disappeared.

I stare at the buttons on his suit jacket. "Didn't peg you as a guy who eats tiny puff pastries and mingles."

He tilts his head, smiling like I'm amusing. "I don't. But my mother throws a good party when she wants something."

Of course. He's one of them. The type that walks through gold-plated doors like it's air. His suit probably costs more than my café oven.

I shift the tray to my other hand, hoping the weight in my chest doesn't show. "Well, you're in luck. Tonight's menu is overpriced shrimp and meaningless small talk."

He laughs, but it's soft and private. It pulls at something in my gut that I don't want to name. "And what about you? Catering for the elite now?"

I shrug. "Someone's gotta keep the rich fed."

His eyes narrow just a little. "Is this your full-time thing?"

"Temporary," I lie.

He studies me like he's peeling something back. "You said you were a chef."

"I am."

"So why are you... here?"

I suck in a slow breath. The air smells like perfume and pride. Like everyone's pretending something. Like I'm the only one here who knows how close you can live to breaking without anyone noticing.

"My grandfather got sick," I say before I can stop myself. "Bills piled up, my rent has expired, and I got an eviction notice from my Café-" I stop. It's too much truth.

His face doesn't change, but something sharp flickers behind his eyes. I hate how that makes me want to explain.

"You don't have to say anything," I mumble, eyes darting to the tray. "You're not responsible for my life."

"No," he says slowly, "but I was in it. Briefly."

There it is-the night I swore I buried, the one I drink away in silence, the reason my fingers ache with phantom touch, still tracing the ghost of him I never meant to keep

"You gave me a fake name," I blurt before I can stop it.

He blinks. "You remembered that?"

"You said your name was-what was it- 'Daniel'?"

His lips twitch, just slightly. " Daniel isn't a bad name."

"It's not your name."

"I didn't think I'd see you again."

There's a pause, quiet and heavy like everything we're not saying is pressing against the air, thick, aching, and too close to breaking

My palms are sweating. I rub them against the sides of my dress, but it doesn't help.

"I'm not supposed to feel this way," I whisper. "It was just one night."

It was warm skin and soft sighs and the way he looked at me like I was the only real thing in the room. It was my fingers in his hair and his breath on my shoulder and how, for one night, I forgot I was drowning.

I don't say any of that.

Instead, I pick up a glass of champagne and sip it like it might wash him out of my mouth.

"Did you do that often?" I ask, eyes on the crowd. "Pick up strangers with fake names?"

"No," he says. "Do you?"

I scoff. "Do I look like someone with time for one-night stands?"

He's quiet for a second. Then: "You look like someone who needed something. That night."

I don't respond. My throat's tight. I can still feel the bed sheets, the dim motel light, his hand on my spine.

"I thought about you," he says suddenly.

I blink. "What?"

"After... I thought about texting, maybe calling, but I didn't even know your real name"

"You didn't ask."

"You didn't offer."

I sigh, saying that was the point-no names, no strings

"No reality."

His voice drops low, and for a moment the party blurs around us. Like we're in a bubble no one can pop.

"Why are you here?" I ask, shifting the weight back to him. "You don't look like those guys who show up for a party because of free wine and gossip."

"My mother," he says. "She said there'd be investors here. Important people."

"And you listen to your mother?"

He laughs. "She owns half my company. That tends to come with conditions."

There it is again. Power that's not his. Rich men with chains you can't see.

"You don't like this world either," I say, surprising both of us.

He looks at me and says no, he doesn't

We are standing there and we pretend as if we're not having a serious conversation. He touches me and brings out something like a stray hair from my shoulder. The touch is brief, barely there, but it lingers like heat.

"Are you okay?" he asks softly.

"No," I say. "But I will be."

He nods like he understands; maybe he does, and maybe we're both just good at faking it.

A waiter passes, and I grab a new tray. It feels like armor. Like putting the mask back on.

"I should get back to work."

He steps aside. "Of course."

But I don't move.

Neither does he.

The music shifts, slower and softer. The kind of music you'll sway to when you're tipsy and pretending life isn't unraveling at the edges.

"I meant what I said," when I told you I am thinking about you."

I don't answer because I have a lot of things on my chest, too much I haven't named.

"I don't expect anything," he shot back, and that's the only time he sounds unsure. "I just-saw you. And I wanted to know if you were okay."

I nod slowly. "Thanks for your concern"

He lets me go and watches me as I drift back into the sea of people and noise, pretending I'm just another server with a tray full of bubbles.

But I feel he's watching me and waiting

Despite everything, I don't want to forget that night anymore.