Page 57 of His Son's Ex

The flicker of irritation in Linda’s expression is priceless. An awkward smile forms on Sarah’s face as Luca shifts uncomfortably in his chair, stabbing at his pasta a little too hard.

Isabella’s sharp gaze lands on me, and I can’t shake the feeling that she sees straight through every carefully chosen word. But she doesn’t press. She merely observes; a knowing smile curving her lips whenever Linda or Sarah try to back me into a corner.

Eventually, the main course arrives—perfectly seared lamb chops with rosemary potatoes. The tension eases slightly as the focus drifts to the food. Dante takes the opportunity to turn to me and ask, “How was your day?”

A simple, harmless question.

I exhale, the knot of tension in my chest starting to loosen. “Productive,” I say, grateful for the reprieve. “Made good progress on the system updates.”

Linda rolls her eyes. “Dante, you always did have a soft spot for workaholics.”

Dante doesn’t even spare her a glance. “I have a soft spot for competence.”

That gets a small smile from Isabella.

Silence falls over the table once more, and for a brief moment, it feels like we might actually get through the evening without any more hostility.

Then Linda pipes up again. “I swear, maintaining oneself is practically a full-time job these days,” she laments, lifting her glass with a practiced sigh. “The treatments, the personal trainers, the endless effort. And yet some women just give up so easily. It’s a shame, really.”

Her gaze flicks to me for the briefest moment before she takes a slow sip of her wine.

Sarah hums in agreement. “True. Some people just don’t prioritize taking care of themselves. And by the time they realize it, it’s too late.”

I don’t miss the way Luca bites back a grin, eyes darting in my direction before down at his plate.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say lightly. “Some women have more important things to do than spend their entire lives waging war against nature. Especially when they have way more than just looks to offer the world.”

Linda’s expression flickers with irritation, but before she can fire back, Isabella sets her knife down with a deliberate clink.

The tension is a living, breathing thing by the time dessert is served. Luca stares at his plate, gnawing on the inside of his cheek. Sarah pretends not to notice the awkwardness, focusing on her phone whenever she thinks no one’s looking. Linda sips her wine, silent but visibly irritated that she can’t dominate the table.

Once the meal is finished and espressos are served, Isabella folds her linen napkin neatly and places it on the table. She looks at Dante. “Son, would you join me in my study for a moment?” Her tone leaves no room for argument.

Dante’s hand brushes my shoulder briefly as he stands. “Of course.”

My stomach tightens. I feel his absence the moment he steps away. He casts me a warning look that says,don’t let them rattle you.I nod once, letting the silent message pass between us.

In a rustle of expensive fabric, Isabella glides out of the dining room, Dante following in her wake, leaving me at the table with Linda, Luca, and Sarah.

Instantly, the atmosphere shifts. Linda leans back in her chair with a smug look on her face, Sarah fidgets with her glass, and Luca looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Stay poised, Eva,I remind myself.Keep your guard up and don’t let them get to you.

I brace myself, feeling the weight of their stares, knowing I won’t like whatever they are about to say to me. Because something tells me without Dante or Isabella to buffer, I’m about to face the hardest test of all.

CHAPTER 15

DANTE

Ifollow my mother out of the dining room. The quiet of the manor’s corridors feels heavier after the tension at the table, where I left Eva to hold her own against Linda.

My jaw tightens. I trust Eva to handle herself but leaving her alone with that viper doesn’t sit right with me.

But when Isabella Bellacino beckons, even I don’t argue. She glides past oil paintings of long-dead ancestors, her dress whispering over the marble floor. At the end of the hall, a pair of ornate double doors stand open, leading to her private study.

She enters first and I follow, shutting the doors behind us. Instantly, the atmosphere becomes more intimate, more relaxed. She moves behind her hand carved mahogany desk, gesturing for me to sit in a high-backed chair opposite.

I look to the imposing portrait of my late father behind her as I take my seat. His stern expression, frozen in time with practiced brushstrokes, still seems to watch over these meetings.

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