You Want Him, I Have Him.
ARIANA’S POV
What the fuck was she doing here?
My grip on the champagne glass tightened. Every conversation faded into a dull echo as she glided into the room like a serpent in silk. And not just any silk—my silk. That red dress. My red dress.
My eyes raked her up and down, disbelieving. It was the exact same one. The plunging neckline, the slit that climbed high on the thigh, the shimmering fabric that caught every glimmer of light. I had spent hours choosing this dress. I hadn’t worn it for the fashion. I’d worn it for Hardin. And now she was parading around in it like a knockoff trying to pass for couture.
I felt him step closer. I didn’t even have to look to know he was tense.
“What the fuck is she doing here?” Hardin muttered, voice low, sharp with anger.
Ah. So I wasn’t the only one.
“She showed up,” he growled under his breath, barely moving his lips as he placed a firm hand at the small of my back again, steadying me like I was the one about to snap—which wasn’t exactly wrong.
“Is that—” I began, my voice hard.
“Yes,” he cut in, his jaw clenched. “Beatrice.”
Of course. Beatrice.
I should’ve known.
We’d only met twice, but it was enough for me to decide I didn’t like her. The first time, she’d acted like we were old friends. The second? She’d asked for help picking out a gift for her fiance.
Her fiance.
I had looked her square in the eye and said, If you knew him well enough, you wouldn’t need help from anyone. That conversation had ended with an awkward laugh from her and a smile from me that could’ve sliced diamonds.
Now here she was. Wearing my dress. At my boyfriend's party.
“She’s wearing the same dress,” I said through clenched teeth.
“I see that.”
“I wore this for you, Hardin.”
He turned fully to face me, eyes darkening. “And you’re the only one I want to see in it. She’s a parasite.”
I nodded, but the bitter taste in my mouth didn’t ease.
Just then, the crowd shifted again, and like a devil summoned from hell, she moved toward us.
And right at her side?
His mother.
Of course she was smiling.
Of course.
Beatrice looked radiant in that manufactured sort of way—every hair in place, lips glossed, cleavage arranged for maximum impact. And her eyes? Trained right on Hardin like I didn’t even exist.
My hands clenched.
“Hardin,” his mother said sweetly, her hand resting on Beatrice’s arm like she was presenting her like a prized show dog. “Look who came to surprise you!”
Beatrice offered a demure smile. “Happy birthday, Hardin. You look…” She paused, like she was searching for the right word. “Exquisite.”
Hardin’s hand tightened on my waist.
I could feel the tension radiating off him like heat.
“We meet again,” I said with a cutting smile, shifting so that Beatrice had no choice but to acknowledge me.
Her eyes flicked to me for the briefest second, her smile never quite reaching her eyes. “You,” she said. “You look… well.”
Bitch.
But before I could respond, his mother opened her too-loud mouth again. “Oh, and look at you both in that dress. But honestly, Beatrice, darling—you wear it better.”
Hardin’s body went still.
So did mine.
Beatrice’s smile widened.
Silence wrapped around us like a noose, and I knew everyone within earshot was listening.
“Mother,” Hardin said, voice sharp as shattered glass. “Don’t.”
His mother blinked like she’d been slapped. “I was just saying—”
“Stop,” he warned. “Now.”
I could’ve kissed him right there. But I didn’t. Not yet.
Beatrice, of course, basked in the attention. “It’s just a dress,” she said, but her eyes glittered like she’d won something. “No need to make a scene.”
Oh, sweetheart. If I made a scene, you’d be in tears before the second act.
But I didn’t let the venom loose.
Not yet.
Instead, I smiled, curling my arm tighter around Hardin’s. “Well, baby,” I said sweetly, voice deliberately loud enough for everyone to hear. “If I’d known someone like her would wear the same dress, I would’ve worn something less exclusive.”
Hardin chuckled low, that sinful sound that made every woman in the room tilt her head toward him. “Don’t flatter her,” he murmured in my ear, just loud enough. “There’s only one woman I want undressed in that fabric.”
Beatrice’s nostrils flared.
“Baby,” I purred, turning my face to his. “You say the dirtiest things in public.”
He grinned, loving every second.
And that’s when the DJ’s voice boomed through the speakers again.
“Ladies and gentlemen, can we please have your attention once more? It’s time for a toast!”
Hardin didn’t hesitate. He reached for a glass of champagne from the tray, then motioned for mine. I handed it to him without breaking eye contact with Beatrice.
She was seething.
Perfect.
He turned to the room, raising his glass high. Everyone hushed again. A thousand eyes on him. On us.
Hardin’s voice cut through the air, smooth and confident. “Thank you all for being here tonight. It means a lot. Truly.”
A pause.
Beatrice tilted her chin, clearly waiting for a mention.
But he kept going.
“And while I appreciate every single person who came out to celebrate my birthday…”—he turned to me—“…I want to make this toast to someone very specific.”
My breath caught.
“To the woman who makes every day worth waking up for. Who made this night unforgettable just by walking in. To my beautiful, intelligent, razor-sharp girlfriend—Ariana Miller.”
The crowd gasped, a few claps erupting immediately.
But my gaze was locked on Beatrice.
And she looked like she’d swallowed glass.
“To more birthdays together,” Hardin continued. “To more years of love, chaos, and passion. And to never letting go of the woman who makes me feel like the luckiest bastard alive.”
We clinked glasses.
Cheers rippled around us.
I took a slow sip, never once looking away from her.
Beatrice didn’t even fake a smile this time.
She just stood there, holding her untouched glass, her posture stiff, her expression cracked at the edges.
Hardin leaned in, voice for my ears only. “You win. Every fucking time.”
I smiled. “I know.”
He kissed my cheek, then my temple, and slid his hand over my hip like I belonged to him. Because I did. And every single person in that glittering room saw it.
Beatrice’s jaw clenched.
His mother looked like she was sucking on a lemon.
Victory tasted like champagne and revenge.
And I hadn’t even started yet.
The rest of the room slowly resumed its rhythm—music, laughter, murmured gossip. But the atmosphere around us remained taut. Charged. Dangerous.
Beatrice lingered longer than she should have. Too long.
I caught her looking at Hardin when she thought no one noticed. I caught the flick of her tongue across her teeth. The way she shifted her shoulders, repositioned her neckline.
Desperate.
And dangerous.
But I wasn’t afraid.
Because that was the difference between the two of us.
She wanted Hardin.
I had him.
Still, my eyes followed her as she finally slunk off toward the bar, heels clicking too loudly. I knew this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
She wouldn’t go down easy. Not someone like her.
But right now?
Right now it was Ariana: 5. Beatrice: 0.
And the night was just beginning.
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