After Meeting His Ex, I Knew He’d Never Love Me

The music in the ballroom was too loud. The champagne was too dry. I just wanted to take off my heels and go home. My feet throbbed badly. I had spent six hours in the dance studio that morning. I stood near a melting ice sculpture, trying to hide in the shadows.

That’s when Marcus Hale found me. He was an entertainment executive with too much cologne and a reputation for wandering hands. He boxed me in against the cocktail table.

“Waverly,” he purred. His breath smelled like gin and expensive cigars. His hand slid down my spine and pressed heavily into my lower back. “You look incredible tonight. Let's continue this conversation somewhere private.”

My chest tightened. I tried to step away, but his grip hardened.

Then, the temperature in the room seemed to drop. A hand clamped down on Marcus’s shoulder. It wasn't rough, but it was heavy. Unmovable.

“I believe the lady is busy.”

The voice was low, cold, and entirely calm.

Marcus spun around, his face paling instantly. “Fletcher. I didn't see you.”

“Clearly.” Fletcher Ross didn’t blink. He just stared Marcus down. His gray eyes were like flint. Marcus swallowed hard, muttered a pathetic excuse, and scuttled away toward the open bar.

Fletcher turned to me. He wore a sharp black tuxedo that fit him perfectly. He was older. In his mid-thirties. He carried an air of quiet authority. “Are you all right?” he asked simply.

“I'm fine,” I said. I let out a long breath. “Thanks for the rescue.”

He didn't smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “He's a known nuisance. You shouldn't have to deal with that.”

We talked for the rest of the night. I was direct. I didn't sugarcoat my words. I laughed at his serious, corporate answers. He was measured. He was careful with his words. But he leaned in when I spoke. He watched my face like he was trying to memorize it.

When the gala ended, we stood out on the sidewalk. The autumn wind bit through my thin silk dress. He took out his phone. “I would like to call you,” he said. It was formal. Careful. He asked like a man who hadn't done this in a very long time.

“I'd like that,” I replied. I gave him my number.

I got into my cab. As the car pulled away into the bright Manhattan traffic, I pulled out my phone. I texted my roommate, Annika. *I think I just met someone.*

The next few weeks felt like a dream. Fletcher was consistent. He was quietly devoted. He booked reservations at restaurants I had only read about in magazines. He sent sleek black town cars to pick me up after late, grueling dance rehearsals. My muscles would be aching, my feet bruised, but the leather seats were always warm.

My phone would buzz at exactly midnight. *Sleep well, Waverly.* Right when I was most awake, pacing my bedroom while working out new choreography.

Our first