Honeymoon Haunted by Ex

The Rosemont Charity Gala glittered with the elite of society, crystal chandeliers casting a warm glow over the ballroom as Walker led me onto the dance floor. His hand rested lightly at my waist, a gentle pressure that anchored me as we moved to the soft strains of the orchestra. For the first time since my world had shattered, I felt something close to peace.

"You look beautiful tonight," Walker murmured, his gray eyes warm with admiration. "That shade of emerald suits you."

I smiled, feeling the weight of curious gazes following us. The news of our sudden marriage had spread through society like wildfire, whispers and speculation trailing in our wake. But here, in Walker's arms, their judgment couldn't touch me.

"Thank you for doing this," I said softly. "For everything."

His hand tightened slightly on mine. "I'm not doing you a favor, Ivory. I'm exactly where I want to be."

The sincerity in his voice made something flutter in my chest—not love, not yet, but perhaps the beginning of possibility. We turned in perfect synchronization, his steps matching mine as if we'd been dancing together for years.

Then the music faltered.

"Ivory!"

Lincoln's voice cut through the elegant melody, causing heads to turn and conversations to halt. He stood at the edge of the dance floor, his tuxedo slightly rumpled, his eyes wild with an emotion I couldn't name.

Walker's body tensed against mine, but he didn't stop dancing, guiding me in another turn as if nothing had happened.

"Ignore him," he whispered. "He's making a scene."

But Lincoln wasn't to be ignored. He pushed through the crowd, stumbling slightly—had he been drinking?—until he reached the center of the dance floor. Couples stepped back, creating a circle of empty space around us.

"This is wrong," Lincoln announced, his voice carrying across the now-silent ballroom. "All of this is wrong. Ivory belongs with me."

I felt heat rise to my cheeks as hundreds of eyes locked on us. This was exactly what I'd hoped to avoid—public drama, becoming the center of gossip and speculation. Walker's arm tightened protectively around my waist.

"You need to leave," Walker said, his voice low but firm. "You're embarrassing yourself."

"Embarrassing myself?" Lincoln laughed, the sound brittle and sharp. "I'm fighting for the woman I love! Ivory, please—" he turned to me, eyes pleading. "This marriage is a mistake. You're angry, I understand that. But what we had was real."

"What you had with my sister-in-law was real," I corrected him, keeping my voice steady despite the trembling in my hands. "For seven years, Lincoln. Seven years of lies."

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. I heard Mrs. Whitmore's scandalized whisper—"Seven years?"—and knew the story would spread even further by morning.

"It wasn't like that," Lincoln insisted, taking another step toward me. "Teresa meant nothing. It was a mistake—"

"A seven-year mistake?" Walker's voice had turned to ice. "Step back, Sanders."

"This doesn't concern you, Reed." Lincoln's face darkened with anger. "She's my fiancée—"

"Wife," I corrected, raising my left hand to display my wedding band. "I'm Walker's wife now."

Something dangerous flashed in Lincoln's eyes. "A marriage of convenience. A sham. You don't love him, Ivory. You love me."

"I loved who I thought you were," I said quietly. "That person never existed."

Before Lincoln could respond, security appeared at his elbows—my father's doing, no doubt. He'd been watching from across the room, his expression thunderous.

"Mr. Sanders," one of the guards said firmly. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Lincoln shook them off. "Ivory, please. Just five minutes. Just hear me out."

"I think you've said enough," Walker replied, then turned to me with gentle concern. "Would you like to go?"

I nodded, suddenly exhausted by the weight of all those staring eyes. As Walker led me from the dance floor, Lincoln's voice followed us, raw with desperation.

"This isn't over, Ivory! I won't give up on us!"

I didn't look back.

What I didn't realize then, as Walker helped me into our waiting car, was just how literally Lincoln meant those words. I didn't know that as we packed for our Paris honeymoon the following day, Lincoln was already making arrangements of his own—booking a suite in our hotel, hiring someone to track our movements, plotting each "coincidental" encounter with meticulous care.

I didn't know that the shadow of his obsession would follow us across the ocean, darkening even the City of Light with its presence.