Ex - Wife's Revenge

The stadium lights blazed like a thousand suns, and I stood in the VIP box with my hands gripped so tightly on the railing that my knuckles turned white. Ten years. Ten cities. Ten concerts. And tonight—the final show of Lane's "Decade Global Tour"—I'd told myself things would be different.

Below me, eighty thousand fans screamed Lane's name, their voices merging into a deafening roar that vibrated through my chest. The stage glittered with pyrotechnics, and there he was—my husband, Lane Tucker—bathed in golden light, his voice soaring through the opening notes of "Endless."

Our anniversary song.

My throat tightened. I'd worn the burgundy dress he once said made me look like starlight. I'd arrived early, checked the setlist three times, coordinated with his team to ensure everything ran smoothly. Just like always. Because that's what I did—I made Lane's world perfect while mine crumbled at the edges.

The "Serenade Segment" was coming. I knew the routine by heart. Lane would scan the VIP section, his eyes searching for someone special, and he'd invite them onstage for an intimate performance. In my pocket, my phone buzzed with messages from friends watching the livestream: "This is it! He's finally going to acknowledge you!"

I wanted to believe them. God, I wanted to believe.

Lane's voice dropped to a tender whisper as the music shifted. "Tonight is special," he told the crowd, and my heart hammered against my ribs. "Tonight, I want to dedicate this song to someone who's been on my mind every single night of this tour."

The spotlight swung toward the VIP section. I straightened, my breath catching.

It swept past me.

Time seemed to fracture. The light landed three boxes to my left, illuminating a woman with cascading auburn hair and a white dress that clung to her curves like water. Remi Morgan. Lane's ex-girlfriend. The woman who'd left him when he had nothing, who'd chosen wealth over his dreams.

The woman he'd chosen at every single concert for the past ten shows.

"Remi," Lane's voice carried across the stadium, warm and achingly familiar—the tone he used to reserve for me. "Come here, beautiful."

The crowd erupted. Cameras swiveled, capturing Remi's practiced surprise, her delicate hand pressed to her chest as if she couldn't believe her luck. She descended the stairs with perfect grace, and Lane met her at the stage edge, extending his hand like a prince greeting his princess.

I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. The stadium screen—massive and unforgiving—split between Lane and Remi's reunion and a close-up of my face. My expression must have betrayed everything: the shock, the devastation, the humiliation of being overlooked in front of the world.

"Look at that," the commentator's voice boomed through the speakers with barely concealed amusement. "Someone in the VIP section doesn't look too happy. Guess not everyone's a fan of this romance!"

Laughter rippled through the crowd. Lane pulled Remi into his arms, and she wrapped herself around him like she belonged there. Like I didn't exist.