Page 12 of His Son's Ex
I slip past a row of stunned guests, head down, heart jackhammering.
My heels outpace the string quartet, each step a countdown.
To the corridor.
To the elevator.
To freedom.
To whatever sanity I can claw back.
Or so I think.
My heart’s still pounding from what just happened in that ballroom.
My stomach churns with nerves. The elevator looms ahead, its gold doors shining from the chandelier above us. I press the button repeatedly, as if that might speed things up.
“Come on, come on,” I mutter, jabbing it again.
And then—that feeling again. Heat. Tension. Like I’m being watched.
I turn.
He’s there.
Dante fucking Bellacino.
Like he’s summoned by the panic in my pulse.
Like fate just keeps throwing us together until I finally get the message.
His eyes lock on mine.
They drag down my body in a slow, deliberate rake.
And now that I know who he is, that gaze hits differently.
Heavier. Darker. Hungrier.
Heat slams into me—wicked and unrelenting.
My thighs clench. A slow, aching throb builds between them.
I should be backing away.
He’s my ex’s father, for God’s sake.
But I don’t.
I want him closer.
Which probably makes me clinically insane.
“Are you okay?” His voice—low, rough—belongs in dark bedrooms and sin-soaked dreams.
The doors open.
We step in.
