(Samuel's POV)
The grand banquet hall was at its peak—laughter, applause, and champagne flowed freely.
The elite of the business world, Hollywood, and European aristocracy gathered around as Mikhail Volkov took the stage.
A man feared and respected, the head of Volkov Industries.
And tonight, he held the microphone with one goal.
To honor .
I leaned back against the bar, whiskey in hand, watching him speak.
Mikhail's deep voice bood through the hall, commanding attention.
"Ladies and gentlen, I rarely speak at events like these, but tonight calls for a special announcent."
The crowd hushed, their eyes locked on him.
His sharp, ice-blue gaze swept the room before landing on .
"Samuel Gebb."
Murmurs spread.
I raised an eyebrow, sipping my drink casually, as all attention shifted toward .
"A man who, despite having no obligation to or my family, risked everything to bring my son back ho." Mikhail's voice was steady, but there was a weight to his words.
"Gregory was missing for months. Every attempt to find him failed. Every lead was a dead end. Hope was slipping away."
His jaw tightened. "And yet, this man—this one man—succeeded where everyone else failed."
A wave of applause erupted.
I didn't react.
I simply watched.
Volkov continued, his expression softening slightly. "For that, I owe you a debt, Samuel. A debt that I will gladly repay whenever you call upon ."
I smirked, raising my glass slightly in acknowledgnt. "Noted."
The crowd chuckled, impressed.
But then—
Volkov's next words froze the room.
Mikhail chuckled, shaking his head. "And of course, there's another reason we celebrate tonight."
He glanced at his gold Rolex, then looked at the crowd with a smirk.
"Today is the 9th of September."
A pause.
Then, he turned back to .
"And today is Mr. Samuel Gebb's birthday!"
The room fell into a stunned silence.
Gasps.
Whispers.
Shock.
Then, applause erupted once more—cheers, laughter, and the sound of glasses clinking together.
"Drinks are on !" Volkov announced.
The crowd celebrated.
But I?
I saw sothing else.
A single person standing frozen.
Abigail Bardot.
Her face turned pale, her hands clenching into fists as her dark eyes widened in horror.
Because in that very mont—
She realized sothing.
She forgot.
The woman who once called herself my wife.
The woman who claid she was holding on to our marriage.
She didn't even rember the one day that mattered.
And that?
That was the real slap.
Not from .
Not from Volkov.
But from reality itself.
I took a slow sip of my whiskey, locking eyes with her from across the room.
The celebration around continued, but my focus remained on one person.
Abigail Bardot.
She stood there, frozen, the truth hitting her harder than any insult ever could.
She forgot.
She forgot my birthday.
Not just as a wife—
Not just as soone who once claid to love —
But as a basic human decency.
And yet, here she was, still clinging to a marriage she had already destroyed.
How pathetic.
I took another slow sip of my whiskey, enjoying the taste of her defeat.
She slowly turned, her breathing uneven, as if she wanted to say sothing—
To defend herself.
But what could she say?
Nothing.
Because there was no excuse.
The whispers in the room grew louder.
People noticed.
People saw her reaction.
And they understood.
Even Joshua, the man she had clung to so desperately, looked at her with an awkward expression.
He knew.
Everyone knew.
She had no right to anymore.
And she never would again.
I chuckled under my breath, turning my attention back to Henry—or should I say, Liberty.
I placed my empty glass on the bar. "Well, that was entertaining."
Henry smirked, swirling his own drink. "You could almost feel the mont her soul left her body."
I exhaled, shaking my head. "She was already dead to . This was just the funeral."
Volkov approached, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "Enjoying your night, Samuel?"
I smirked. "More than I expected."
He chuckled. "Good. Because this is only the beginning."
I nodded. "Damn right it is."
The night continued.
The celebration continued.
But for Abigail Bardot?
Everything ended right there.
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