Then, his eyes lock onto mine. Recognition flashes in his gaze, his lips twitch into something resembling a smile, cool, unreadable, and utterly terrifying.
Shit.
“Ms Ng,” he says, his voice lower, smoother than I remember, as he closes the distance between us. His expression doesn’t falter, completely composed, like I’m a stranger he’s never met before.
He’s acting like he doesn’t know me.
What the actual fuck?
I inhale slowly, swallowing the sharp burn of resentment rising in my throat, and part my lips, ready to greet him, to say something, anything.
But before I can speak, he holds out his hand.
It stops me cold.
Not a smirk. Not a flicker of acknowledgment. Just a calm, detached handshake. Like we don’t have history.
For a second, I just stare at his hand. It shouldn’t matter. It’s just a handshake. But something in me hesitates, my fingers twitching at my sides. Do I call him out?
I should leave him hanging. I should cross my arms, tilt my head, let him feel the weight of my silence.
But then, before I can decide otherwise, I take it.
Mistake.
His grip is rough, firm, too familiar. A shiver shoots up my spine before I can stop it. Damn it. His fingers strong around mine, a dozen memories crash into me all at once.
A different time. A different version of him. I force myself to stay still, even though my body is screaming at me to pull away. Break the contact. Stop this reaction.
His thumb brushes against the side of my hand before he lets go, and it takes everything in me not to flinch.
Goddamn it.
I yank my hand back too quickly, heat creeping up my neck. Stupid. That was the stupidest idea. My palm tingles where his skin touched mine, and I curl my fingers into a fist to erase the feeling.
His face remains unreadable, cool and indifferent.
Like he didn’t feela damn thing.
Fine. Two can play that game.
I smooth my expression, meeting his gaze without flinching. “Well, thank you for coming, Mr. Ashcroft.” My voice is steady, professional. Almost convincing.
Almost.
His lips curve slightly, not quite a smile, more like he knows exactly what he’s doing and then, smoothly, he says, “Call me Ben.”
The words hit like a sucker punch.
I keep my face neutral, but something in my chest tightens. The casual ease of it. Like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like he’s still Ben, not the man who disappeared from my life fifteen years ago without a word.
No.
He doesn’t get to do that.
I smile. Polite, distant, utterly detached. “Mr. Ashcroft will do just fine.”
His eyes flicker, just for a moment, and I tell myself that’s a win.
