Her ex-husband called her “a nobody” at the class reunion. But then a famous performer stepped onto the stage and did the unexpected.
She stood before the heavy auditorium doors, upholstered in burgundy faux leather, and felt her palms grow slick with sweat.
The hum of dozens of voices, laughter, and scraps of music seeped through the gaps, each sound ricocheting in her temples with anxious echo. Why had she come here at all? It had been ten years.
Ten years in which, brick by brick, she had built a new life on the ruins of what was left behind these walls.
She pulled out her phone. On the screen glowed the unsent words to Stas: “Are you sure this is a good idea? Maybe forget it?” He would have replied with something upbeat, in his usual way. He’d say it was time to slam this door shut once and for all—and to do it looking her fears in the face. She knew he was right. But she was terrified. She sighed, erased the message, took a short breath, and pushed the heavy door.
The air inside was thick and warm, saturated with perfume, food, and nostalgia. Her appearance caused no stir.
Only a couple of people nodded in passing before plunging back into their conversations. That was even better. She scanned for a free table in the corner, hoping to stay unnoticed. No such luck.
“Oh, look who decided to show up. Anya. Finally crawled out of your hole.”
Dmitry’s voice—her ex-husband—scraped across her nerves, making her flinch. He hadn’t changed at all: the same commanding tone, the same cutting smirk.
He stood at the center of a circle of former classmates—groomed, self-assured, in a suit that fit perfectly and shouted his “success” louder than any words. Around him clustered the same crowd that had always stayed close to power back in school.
“Dima, enough,” she said with a faint smile, feeling dozens of eyes swing toward her.
“Enough what?” He took a step toward her, savoring everyone’s attention. “People should know their heroes. Take me, for instance—” he swept an arm around the hall—“owner of a construction company. Lena’s the chief physician at a private clinic. Sergei’s a deputy. And Anya…”
He paused theatrically, and all eyes, as if on command, pinned her. She felt her cheeks flare hot.
“And Anya, after the divorce, stayed a big nobody. Just an empty space I cut loose in time.”
Soft, poisonous snickers rippled through the hall. Every glance pricked like a needle. She wanted to sink through the floor. Dmitry relished the moment.
He had always known how to strike where it hurt most, casting her as weak and worthless. And she—just like ten years ago—stood silent, unable to force out a word.
Inside, a voice screamed: “Say something! Don’t let him!” But her lips felt numb. And then the heavy doors swung open again, letting a gust of fresh air into the hall.
There he was. Stas Volkov. The legend of their school, now a rock star whose songs blasted from every speaker in the country. No one had expected him. Except her.
He gave a casual nod to those who recognized him, his gaze sweeping the room—alert, searching.
Dmitry straightened, his face slipping into a smug look, as if even the stars had come for his triumph. But Stas looked right through him. His eyes found Anya, and he moved forward, cutting through the crowd that parted for him like water before an icebreaker.
He came right up to her, ignoring the flustered Dmitry and the frozen classmates.
“I was starting to think you’d change your mind,” he said quietly, his voice warm with genuine tenderness. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Ready to put on a show, my love?”
The air in the hall thickened. The word “love,” spoken in Stas Volkov’s velvet voice, boomed louder than any gunshot.
Dmitry blinked, and for a second his smugness vanished, replaced by open bewilderment.
“Volkov? What are you doing here? And what’s with this circus?”
Stas didn’t even glance his way; all his attention was on Anya. He touched her shoulder lightly, and warmth ran over her skin, melting the icy stupor.
“I asked you a question,” Dmitry insisted. He couldn’t afford to lose control.
Only then did Stas turn slowly. His gaze was calm, almost indifferent, but something glinted in its depths that made Dmitry instinctively step back half a pace.
“I see you haven’t changed, Dima. Still love being the center of attention. Even when it’s not yours.”
“What do you mean, ‘not yours’?” Dmitry snapped. “I know Anya. Better than anyone. And I know she’s not who you think she is.”
“Guys, don’t,” Anya said quietly. It was her old habit—to smother conflicts at the spark, to take the blame just to avoid a scene.
Dmitry gave a crooked grin at the familiar cadence. He felt like the winner again.
“See, Volkov? She gets it. Anya, tell him there’s no need for theatrics. You’ve always been a gray mouse—how could you soar with eagles?”
He deliberately used the old nickname he’d used to belittle her, to underline her insignificance.
Stas smiled, but this time the smile was sharp as a blade.
“You know, Dima, that’s your biggest mistake. You look, but you don’t see. You think you know a person, but really you’re staring at a reflection that’s convenient for you.”
He laced his fingers with Anya’s. The gesture said more than any words.
“And about theatrics— You’re right. We didn’t come for that. We’ve got news that matters far more.”
The crowd held its breath. Everyone was all ears. Dmitry sensed trouble.
“What news?” he ground out. “What, are you pregnant by him? Decided to hook a star?”
It was filthy.