Page 7 of His Son's Ex

We step into a side room—quiet, low light.

Heavy furniture and heavier silence.

He lingers near the door. I move toward a marble table and grip the edge like it might anchor me.

He watches me. Still. Silent.

Unmoving.

He’s the kind of man who doesn’t chase. He waits—and the world bends to meet him.

“I just needed a minute. I’m fine,” I lie, sliding into the polished calm I wear like armor—the kind you learn to stitch together when you grow up being passed around in foster homes and told to be 'grateful.'

The same armor my therapist says kept me alive… but won’t let anyone all the way in.

“You’re rattled,” he says, voice gentler now. “Which doesn’t happen to women like you.”

I cross my arms, the silk of my dress suddenly too hot against my skin.

“And what exactly does that mean—‘women like me’?”

“Strong. Sharp. Impossibly put together. The kind who exits the second things get too real.”

He walks past me, unhurried, until he’s close enough to steal my breath.

Close enough that even the air feels compromised.

I open my mouth—then close it.

Because damn it, he’s not wrong.

And that pisses me off almost as much as it turns me on.

Clearly I have a type: dangerous, observant… and probably armed.

“Maybe I just needed space,” I mutter, knowing damn well it’s a lie I want to believe.

“You need a release,” he says, eyes dragging over me. “But you won’t ask. You’ll bury it under logic and act like that ache doesn’t exist.”

My pulse roars in my ears.

“Do you always psychoanalyze women at weddings?” I ask, trying to sound annoyed instead of breathless.

“No,” he says softly. “Just the ones who fascinate me.”

Oh no.

Don’t like that. Don’t feel that.

That should’ve been a red flag. Hell, all his lines should come with a warning label.

He’s a walking disaster.

A beautiful, well-dressed catastrophe.

And I don’t even know his name.

He watches me like he’s offering a choice, not making a move. And it’s infuriating how badly I want to say yes to whatever fire he’s holding out.

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