Isabella lowered her gaze.

Her long lashes created delicate shadows on her cheeks, hiding any emotion that might have surfaced.

She had witnessed this exact scene three years ago.

She had stopped longing for what could never be back then.

“Isn’t it strange they’re still not married?”

“Who knows?” someone whispered nearby. “Maybe Mr. Blackwood isn’t ready to settle down.”

The murmurs swirled around her, sharp and intrusive.

She gripped her clutch tighter, knuckles turning white.

She tried to block it all out—the stares, the whispers, the judgment.

Under the glittering chandeliers, she sat alone at her table.

Her posture was calm, but her mind raced.

Then, a figure slid into the seat beside her.

It was Sophia, draped in champagne-colored silk.

To Isabella, she was the woman Ethan had chosen—the one who still stood by his side.

A faint trace of jasmine perfume lingered around Sophia.

She tapped her crimson nails slowly against the table.

Each tap was deliberate, almost mocking.

“Three years, Miss Scott,” she murmured. “And yet, you still haunt these events.”

Isabella met her gaze steadily. “I could say the same about you, Miss Reed.”

For a moment, Sophia’s polished composure cracked.

Her lips tightened before she let out a cold, hollow laugh.

“What do you think you are?” she sneered. “A discarded woman with a child? Do you really believe you can compete with me?”

A faint, knowing smile touched Isabella’s lips.

“What I am doesn’t matter,” she replied coolly. “What matters is that Ethan has never publicly claimed you as his.”

Tension crackled between them.

Just then, a banquet staff member approached their table.

He bowed slightly and addressed Sophia with polite professionalism.

“I apologize, Miss Reed, but this section is reserved for internationally recognized designers. Your seat is further back.”

Sophia’s smile stiffened.

She pointed directly at Isabella, disbelief dripping from her voice.

“Her?” she said, brows arched in disdain. “You’re telling me she qualifies as a top international designer?”

The staff member nodded politely.

“Yes, Miss Reed. Serena is one of our most distinguished guests this evening.”

Humiliation flushed Sophia’s neck.

She turned back to Isabella, eyes burning with envy.

“How did you get a seat here?”

Isabella remained unshaken.

With effortless grace, she lifted her champagne flute.

Her slender fingers traced the stem as she took a slow sip.

“It seems you’re not well-informed,” she said calmly. “I am Serena.”

Sophia froze.

She remembered Vanessa mentioning this months ago.

But she still couldn’t accept it—Isabella, the woman she had looked down on for years, was the renowned designer Serena.

Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

Isabella set her glass down with quiet finality.

Her expression was composed, yet edged with unmistakable authority.