It was then that I followed his gaze toward a woman in a plain white dress. The fabric was cheap and unremarkable, yet it did nothing to conceal her beauty. She stood there, frozen, staring at him like the world had just stopped.
A name surfaced in my mind.
Nathalia Cavendish.
Mathias’ first love. The woman who, when he had nothing, stripped him of what little he had left and vanished overseas without a trace.
I had once stumbled upon an old, yellowed photo album, flipping through snapshots of them together, his youthful adoration, her effortless charm.
And now, standing there, I finally understood.
The custom-tailored suit flown in from France, the platinum cufflinks, luxurious yet understated, and even his hair, styled to perfection by a professional.
This wasn't just any night.
He had been waiting for her.
Mathias looked devastatingly handsome, every inch of him exuding elegance and refinement.
Yet, I knew the truth; he had always despised dressing like this.
But tonight was different. Before leaving, he had stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his suit, smoothing his cufflinks, and scrutinizing every detail with uncharacteristic care.