Chapter 12: The Jealous Ex
1474 Words
The invitation arrived via courier at 10:17 a.m. on a Thursday—black envelope, silver wax seal stamped with the intertwined initials *D* and *S*. Elena found it on the marble console table in the foyer when she came down for lunch, placed deliberately where she would see it first.
She broke the seal.
Inside: heavy cream cardstock.
Seraphina Lang requests the pleasure of Damian Blackwood’s company
at her private launch event for Lang Atelier’s Fall Collection
Friday, 8:00 p.m.
The Penthouse at The Mark Hotel
Black tie. Plus one welcome.
Handwritten at the bottom in elegant, looping script:
It’s been too long, darling. Come alone or bring your new toy. Either way, I’ll be waiting. —S
Elena’s fingers tightened until the card creased.
She set it down exactly where she found it.
Damian walked in five minutes later—fresh from a meeting, charcoal suit still impeccable, phone in hand. He saw the open envelope immediately.
His expression didn’t change.
He picked up the card, read it, then placed it back on the table.
“You’re going,” Elena said. Not a question.
“I haven’t decided.”
She crossed her arms. “She called me a toy.”
His gaze flicked to her. “Seraphina enjoys provocation. Ignore it.”
“Hard to ignore when it’s addressed to you and mentions me.”
He stepped closer. “Are you asking me not to go?”
She met his eyes—steady, unflinching. “I’m asking what she is to you.”
A long beat.
“History,” he said finally. “Brief. Public. Over.”
“How brief?”
“Eight months. Eighteen months ago.”
Elena’s stomach twisted. “And the plus-one?”
“Optional.”
“But expected.”
He tilted his head. “You want to come?”
“I want to know why she still has your private address.”
“Because she’s persistent. And because I never bothered to change it.”
Elena laughed—short, humorless. “Of course. Why change anything when you can just ignore it?”
His jaw tightened. “You’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous,” she snapped. Too quickly.
He stepped into her space—close enough she had to tilt her head.
“Then why does your pulse jump when you say her name?”
She hated that he could read her so easily.
“Because she had you willingly,” Elena said quietly. “No contracts. No cuffs. No threats. She chose you. And you let her.”
Damian’s hand lifted—slow—brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.
“She chose the idea of me,” he murmured. “The billionaire. The power. The photo ops. When the novelty wore off, she left. Cleanly. No mess. No heartbreak.”
Elena searched his face. “Did it hurt?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
His thumb traced her jawline. “It didn’t hurt because I never let it.”
She caught his wrist—held it still.
“Then why keep the invitation?”
“Because declining would be more interesting than accepting. And because I want to see what happens when you’re in the same room as someone who once shared my bed.”
Elena’s grip tightened. “You’re testing me.”
“I’m testing us.”
She released him.
Stepped back.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll go. But not as your plus-one. As your date. And if she touches you, I’ll make sure everyone in that room knows exactly who you belong to now.”
A slow, dangerous smile curved his mouth.
“That,” he said softly, “is the answer I wanted.”
Friday evening arrived like a storm front.
Elena stood in front of the full-length mirror in her room—now irrevocably *their* room most nights—wearing the dress Damian had chosen without consultation.
Crimson satin. Floor-length. High slit on the left leg. Plunging neckline framed by delicate straps that crossed in the back. The color screamed possession—his favorite when he wanted to mark territory without saying a word.
She looked lethal.
She felt lethal.
Downstairs, Damian waited in black tuxedo—perfectly tailored, no tie, top button undone. The single concession to informality made him look even more dangerous.
When she descended the spiral staircase, his gaze tracked every step.
He offered his hand at the bottom.
She took it.
“You look…” He paused. Swallowed. “Dangerous.”
“Good,” she said. “I feel dangerous.”
The drive to The Mark was silent except for the low hum of the city outside the tinted windows.
His hand rested on her thigh the entire ride—thumb tracing slow circles over the satin slit. Not demanding. Just reminding.
She didn’t push him away.
When they arrived, the private elevator whisked them straight to the penthouse level.
The doors opened to music—low, sultry jazz—and the scent of orchids and champagne.
Heads turned immediately.
Damian’s arm slid around Elena’s waist—firm, possessive.
Seraphina Lang appeared like she’d been waiting for exactly this moment.
Platinum blonde hair swept into an elegant updo. Ice-blue gown that clung to every surgically enhanced curve. Red lips curved in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Damian,” she purred, gliding forward. “You came.”
Her gaze slid to Elena—slow, assessing, dismissive.
“And you brought… company.”
“Elena Voss,” Damian said evenly. “My date.”
Seraphina’s laugh was crystalline. “How quaint. I didn’t know you did dates now. I thought you preferred… arrangements.”
Elena felt the words like a slap.
She smiled—sharp, sweet. “Some arrangements are temporary. Some become permanent.”
Seraphina’s eyes narrowed fractionally.
Damian’s fingers flexed against Elena’s waist—approval.
“Congratulations on the collection,” he said to Seraphina. “It looks… ambitious.”
“Everything I do is ambitious, darling.” She leaned in—close enough her perfume enveloped them both. “You used to appreciate that.”
Elena stepped forward—subtle, but enough to place herself between them.
“He appreciates things that last now.”
Seraphina’s gaze flicked to the leather cuff on Elena’s wrist—visible tonight, the silver *D* catching the light.
“How… charming. A collar?”
“A choice,” Elena corrected softly.
Damian’s hand slid lower—possessive curve over her hip.
Seraphina’s smile tightened.
“Enjoy the party,” she said. “And do try not to break anything. I’d hate for your little toy to get damaged.”
She turned—gown swirling—and disappeared into the crowd.
Elena exhaled slowly.
Damian leaned down, lips brushing her ear.
“You handled that beautifully.”
“I wanted to slap her.”
“I know.”
He turned her toward him—cupped her face with both hands.
“Look at me.”
She did.
“You’re not a toy,” he said quietly. “You’re mine. Willingly. And she knows it.”
Elena searched his eyes.
“Then prove it.”
He didn’t hesitate.
Right there—in the middle of the glittering crowd—he kissed her.
Not a polite social peck.
A claiming.
Deep. Slow. Unapologetic.
One hand in her hair. The other splayed across her lower back, pressing her flush against him.
She melted into it—fingers curling into his lapels.
When he pulled back, her lipstick was smudged on his mouth.
He didn’t wipe it away.
Instead he turned—arm around her waist—and guided her through the room.
Every head followed them.
Seraphina stood near the bar—glass frozen halfway to her lips—watching.
Elena met her gaze across the crowd.
Held it.
Smiled.
Seraphina looked away first.
Later—on the rooftop terrace overlooking the city—Damian backed Elena against the railing.
The wind tugged at her hair.
His hands framed her face.
“You were jealous,” he murmured.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because she had pieces of you I haven’t earned yet.”
His thumb traced her lower lip.
“You’ve earned more than she ever did.”
Elena’s heart squeezed.
“Then stop holding back.”
He kissed her again—slower this time.
Deeper.
When they parted, he rested his forehead against hers.
“I’m trying,” he whispered.
She smiled—small, real.
“Try harder.”
He laughed—quiet, rough.
“I will.”
They stood like that—wrapped in each other—while the city glittered below.
Seraphina’s launch continued inside.
But out here, in the cold night air, something shifted.
Jealousy had burned hot and bright.
And in its ashes, something stronger began to grow.
- Writer
