Page 4 of His Son's Ex

His gaze drifts over the crowd—searching.

Shit.

This was supposed to be some kind of “confront your past” therapy session. Instead, I feel a sudden regret slamming into me.

Get out of here before he sees you, my mind screams.

Clearly I hadn’t thought this through.

"I've seen enough. Let’s bail."

My fingers clamp around Halsey's wrist. She doesn't flinch—just meets my serious gaze with understanding.

"Now?"

"Now."

Luckily, we’re seated close enough to the exit that we don’t have to push past too many people. No awkward apologies. No curious stares.

Just clean air and an escape plan.

I start to exhale, chest loosening, pulse slowing?—

And then…

My stiletto snags on a ridge of polished marble.

Fuck.

Everything slows.

One second, I’m striding toward freedom—head high, almost smug.

The next, I’m airborne.

Clutch flying.

Dress riding up.

A gasp tearing from my throat like a warning flare.

And then?—

I’m caught.

Two hands.

One at my waist.

The other fisted in the back of my dress.

He hauls me upright like it’s effortless.

But the way he touches me? It's anything but careless.

It’s intentional.

I slam into a chest made of brick and body heat.

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