Page 60 of His Son's Ex

I’m not sure what’s worse—the subtle barbs and smirks, or the judging glances and false compliments.

It’s been a while since Dante headed off with Isabella for a private word, and I’ve been holding my own—more or less—against Linda, Luca, and Sarah. The second he was out of earshot, it was as if they sensed their chance, evil grins widening like sharks circling their prey.

Sarah, practically buzzing from Linda’s goading, chimes in, “Oh, but she and Dante are just so close, aren’t they?” She tilts her head at me, mock concern on her face. “Although I do have to say, you’re kind of an unexpected choice for him. I mean, Dante’s always been such a refined man, always had a particular taste.” Her eyes flick over me, the insult barely concealed.

I smile. “I suppose some men prefer a woman with a mind of her own rather than a Barbie doll who’s been raised to be nothing but a trophy.”

Luca snorts, and Sarah’s face tightens.

Linda smiles thinly, swirling her wine. “Eva, some women simply fit certain roles better than others. It’s all about keeping up appearances, maintaining a certain status.” She sighs dramatically, her eyes narrowing at me. “However, that can be difficult for some women, especially when genetics aren’t in their favor.”

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, forcing the ache in my chest to recede.

Don’t lash out. Don’t let them see they’re getting to you.

Luca chuckles, barely glancing up from espresso. “Come on, Mom. Eva’s always been comfortable in her own skin. Nothing wrong with being… what’s the word?” He taps a finger against his lip. “Soft.”

Sarah giggles into her champagne glass.

“At least I’m not spineless,” I say sweetly, turning my gaze directly onto Luca. “I mean, it’s impressive how little integrity you have, considering who your father is. I would’ve thought some of it would’ve rubbed off.”

Luca’s smirk falters just slightly.

Linda huffs. “Oh, dear. Someone’s feeling defensive, I?—”

I open my mouth to fire back, but before I can, a shadow looms behind Linda’s shoulder. I see him before anyone else, his eyes flashing with barely contained fury. He steps around her,predatory-like, clearing his throat in a way that halts her mid-sentence.

The air shifts, heavy with a sudden tension. Linda’s posture stiffens, and Luca’s expression immediately becomes more neutral, though I don’t miss the way his shoulders subtly lock up.

Dante’s voice is quiet, but there’s a lethal edge underneath. “Am I interrupting something?”

Linda freezes, turning to face him. The smug smile on her face falters. “Dante,” she says, forcing false civility. “We were just chatting.”

Dante’s gaze slides to me. “About what?”

“Oh, just about how important it is to keep up certain appearances in this family,” Linda replies casually.

I lift my chin, offering him a small, weary smile. He looks from me to Linda, then at Luca and Sarah, a flash of disapproval in his eyes. Luca clears his throat and Sarah leans back, crossing her arms.

The tension in the room is almost suffocating. There’s nowhere for Linda to hide, so she hurries to defend herself. “I was simply pointing out that some of us are more vigilant about our appearances, while others can remain comfortably indifferent.”

I look at Dante. I can’t read his expression, but I see his jaw tightening.

“Linda,” he says quietly, “don’t you think your commentary on appearances is growing old? We’re all aware of your dedication to vanity.”

Linda’s cheeks redden as she lets out a weak laugh.

Still, the damage is done. My stomach knots, and I can’t shake the growing certainty that this is all too much. Trying to hold my own in a family of wolves, to remain composed under constant attack is exhausting.

Dante sets his hand gently on my arm, concern in his gaze. “Eva?”

I force a smile, but my words come out tight. “I’m fine.”

He frowns, well aware that’s a lie. “Are you sure?”

Linda arches a brow, her voice dipping into false sympathy. “Yes, dear, you do look rather tired. Long day?”

I close my eyes for a beat, fighting the urge to say something I might regret. Instead, I swallow the anger—and humiliation—and push my chair away from the table. “Excuse me,” I manage. “I need some air.”

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