HIS EX WORE CHANEL — NOW SHE WEARS HIS REGRET

The fourth chair was still empty when the door opened.

I didn’t look up right away. I felt him before I saw him—the drop in conversation, the way air realigned itself around him. Callum Priest entered the room as if it were a border to be reclaimed, not crossed. He didn’t hurry. He didn’t need to. The restaurant’s hush stretched tight as cello string, and every head in our little circle snapped to attention.

He found me first, always. His hand slid behind my neck, his palm hot—almost feverish—like he’d been holding tension in his bones all day. He pressed a kiss to the top of my head, not a question but a declaration. I let my eyes close for a half second, just to feel the anchor of it, the cedar and black pepper clinging to his coat, unmistakable and stubbornly at odds with the sharp aftershave Derek had left in the room. The scents tangled in the air, two animals circling a line in the sand.

When I opened my eyes, Callum’s gaze was on Derek and Paige. He smiled—a flash of teeth, polite and predatory in the same breath. He made it look effortless. Derek rose, a slow recalibration, hand extended. Callum’s grip swallowed his, deliberate, just three seconds long—enough to make a point without breaking the rhythm.

“Sorry I’m late, sweetheart,” Callum said, his voice pitched for me, eyes still weighing Derek. The word lingered, warm and sharp.

Derek didn’t sit. “I didn’t know Sienna remarried.” The word stuck to his tongue, stretched and slow, almost like he wanted me to flinch at it.

Callum’s smile deepened by a degree. “Didn’t she?” His gaze cut sideways, all scalpel, no velvet. “Hm. I assumed the wedding made the news.”

Paige’s laugh was brittle, and she fiddled too long with her wine glass stem. She was trying to assemble herself into the Paige I remembered—perfect, poised, a little above the mess. But her hands betrayed her. I watched the tremor, noted it, filed it away.

Dinner became a chessboard. Every move counted, even the ones no one saw. Callum sat beside me, not too close, but his fingers brushed mine under the table. Each touch was deliberate, a pulse of reassurance—steady, steady, I’m here. He ordered for me. No chili, extra lemon on the side. The server’s eyes flicked to me for confirmation, and I nodded, a silent contract. Derek watched the exchange, jaw tight, glass turning slowly in his hand.

Paige tried to break the tension. “We went to Santorini last winter—Derek surprised me,” she said, her voice skating the edge of a tremor.

Callum didn’t take the bait. “Sounds lovely. Sienna and I did Amalfi. She prefers home, though. Says the best view is our son falling asleep on the couch.”

The words were simple, but the subtext was a blade between ribs. Paige looked at me, searching for a crack. Derek’s knuckles whitened on his stemware, eyes flicking between Callum and me, trying to find the seam he could pry open.

He set his wine down, too careful. “You seem like a good guy, Priest. But you don’t know what she’s capable of when she’s hurt.”

Callum’s smile stayed, but his eyes went cold, blue steel under lamplight. “I know exactly what she survived. That’s not a warning—that’s a résumé.”

Derek didn’t answer. He looked away, but not before I saw something ugly flicker behind his eyes—a cocktail of resentment and something almost like fear. It tasted familiar. Five years and he still kept it close.

Paige started talking about Florence, her voice growing brighter, faster, like she could fill the room with stories and drown out everything else. She described a villa, the color of the water, the wine. I let her talk. I watched Callum—his attention flickering between me and the door, his thumb tracing circles on the inside of my wrist. A grounding wire. He always knew when I was about to bolt.

The meal moved in fits and starts. Every time I lifted my glass, I caught Derek watching, cataloguing. Paige was a metronome—on, off, on, off. Callum listened, but his body was a rampart, angled toward me in subtle, unmistakable ways. His presence made the room smaller and safer at once.

Then the door crashed open. It wasn’t subtle. The whole restaurant stilled—a collective intake of breath. A woman stood in the threshold, maybe thirty, elegant makeup streaked with new tears, her lipstick precise but her expression unhinged. Her heels rang sharp against the marble as she crossed the room, straight to Derek.

She didn’t hesitate. Her hand cracked across his face, a sound so loud it snapped the air. For a breathless second, nobody moved.

“You promised me, Derek,” she spat, voice shaking. “You said you’d leave her.”

Time stuttered. All eyes went to Paige. The color drained from her cheeks, and a look settled across her face—a precise, brittle devastation I’d seen once before. Five years ago, in Derek’s office, when I’d walked in and the world changed shape. Recognition sliced through me: history wasn’t repeating, it was escalating.

The room vibrated with tension, thick and electric. Paige’s mouth opened, closed. Her eyes glazed, but her hands were marble—frozen, unresponsive.

The woman—Margaux, I realized distantly, a memory surfacing—spun on her heel and faced Paige, her voice rising, sharp and splintered, enough for the entire restaurant to hear:

“You think you’re the only one?”

The words hung there, a guillotine waiting to drop. My chest felt hollow, a cavity carved by déjà vu and something colder. Derek’s face had gone slack, shock fighting with guilt, and for once, he had nothing to say.

Callum’s hand slid up to my shoulder, warm and anchoring. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. His presence was a shield, a line in the sand—unmistakable, unyielding. I felt the eyes of the room on us, but for the first time in years, I didn’t shrink from them.

Instead, I watched Paige, her composure fracturing, and saw the exact moment she understood. She was not the exception. She was just next.

And I wondered, not for the first time, if survival wasn’t just about leaving, but about knowing exactly when not to look away.