Page 9 of His Son's Ex

What does a man like that do with his hands when he’s not saving someone…

but claiming them?

And why does every part of me want to be the thing he claims next?

I glance toward the ballroom doors, then back towards his direction, but he’s gone.

Like smoke. Like he was never real.

But I can still feel the imprint of his hands. Still taste the warning in his voice. And in the pit of my stomach, something tells me— This won’t be the last time he catches me.

And I might not want him to let go.

And then?—

“Eva?”

Sarah Bellacino.Of course.

The venom in her voice is wrapped in sugar.

And just like that, the spell breaks.

The room tilts. Reality slams back into me with a vengeance.

I brace for impact.

From the corner of my eye, I catch movement—guests rising, stretching, clutching purses and discarded programs.

The ceremony’s just ended, and the feeding frenzy is about to begin.

“Wow,” she purrs. “You look... bold. That dress is definitely working overtime.”

Heat floods my cheeks—rage or shame, I can’t tell.

Soft gasps ripple through the crowd like aftershocks.

Someone coughs—a poor disguise for a laugh.

People freeze.

Heads turn.

“Love that you came, though,” she adds sweetly.

“So empowering to see women own their... volume.”

Her bridesmaids titter—practiced, poisonous—behind flawless, weaponized smiles.

My throat constricts. My skin burns.

I open my mouth to speak—to snap, to scorch, to fight fire with fire?—

But nothing comes.

Not a word.

Just silence, loud enough to drown me.

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