My Ex Husband Biggest Regret

The Monday board meeting started at eight and ran long.

Roman sat at the head of the table with his coffee and let Hartwell do what Hartwell did best, which was talk through numbers with the kind of enthusiasm most people reserved for things that actually mattered outside a conference room. Roman listened. Took notes when something required it. His mind kept drifting back to his desk drawer.

"The biggest development this week is Devlin Corp," Hartwell said, clicking to a new slide. "They went quiet Friday afternoon and we found out why this morning. They've been acquired. Fully. Deal closed over the weekend."

Roman looked up. "Who bought them?"

"Montague Industries," Hartwell said the way you say the name of a restaurant you've walked past a hundred times but never been inside. "Private holding group. Old family money. They've been moving quietly for the past year, but this is their biggest play yet."

Roman's pen stopped moving.

"Who runs it?" he asked. He kept his voice even.

Hartwell glanced down at his notes. He looked mildly surprised by the question. Roman usually only asked about numbers, not names. "The family heir. Seraphina." He checked the page again. "Seraphina Montague. Took over from her father a couple of years back. Kept a low profile until recently."

Someone else at the table started talking about what the Devlin acquisition meant for their own position in the market. Roman nodded. He wrote something down that he would not remember writing.

Seraphina Montague.

He had heard that name for the first time three years ago, at a charity dinner, when she had shaken his hand and said I'm Sera. Sera Montague, and smiled at him in a way that did not try to be anything more than what it was. By the end of that night he had stopped thinking of her as Seraphina, stopped thinking of her as a Montague, stopped thinking of her as anything other than Sera. Just Sera. The quiet woman who never tried too hard and somehow stayed in his head anyway.

He had never once looked up her full name.

...

He was back at his desk by ten.

He opened his laptop. Pulled up his browser. Typed Seraphina Montague and hit enter.

The results came back fast.

Montague Industries at the top. Clean website, conservative and expensive. Founded by Savio Montague. Current operations led by his daughter, Seraphina. Legitimate holdings in real estate, private equity, import logistics. Estimated value undisclosed. A short list of philanthropic projects, hospitals and arts foundations mostly, all donated to quietly with no press releases attached.

He scrolled past the company pages into the image results.

Every photo was from a public event. Charity galas, fundraising dinners, hospital openings. But in every single one, she was near the edge of the frame. Not hidden, just never at the center. Standing slightly apart from the group, or caught mid-turn, or looking just past the camera at something nobody else could see. He scrolled through two pages of results and could not find one photo where she was looking directly at the lens.

He had been to a dozen events with her. She did the same thing in person. He had always thought it was shyness. Sitting at his desk now, looking at five years of photographs, he wondered if it was something else entirely. If she had always known exactly where the cameras were and chosen, deliberately, to stay just outside them.

He clicked on a business journal profile from two years ago. Montague Industries: The Quiet Giant. The article mentioned Savio's reputation, his decades of careful relationship-building, his daughter's education abroad, her return at twenty-two. It used the word connected four times. It did not elaborate on what that meant. The journalist clearly knew better than to try.

Roman leaned back in his chair.

She had told him she came from an old family. He had not asked what that meant. He had been busy. He was always busy, and Sera had never pushed him to know more, had never laid out her history and asked him to look at it. She had existed quietly beside him and let him assume he already understood who she was.

Three years. He had not typed her name into a search engine once.

He went back to the image results and kept scrolling. The recent photos were professional. But deeper in the results, further back in time, the pictures changed. Older. Less polished. The kind that surfaced from personal collections, shared somewhere online years ago and never taken down.

He found one that looked like a family gathering. Long tables in a garden, people eating, late afternoon light. Sera was young in it, nineteen maybe, in a pale dress. She was laughing at something to her left, her hand resting on the arm of the man beside her, leaning toward him slightly. Completely relaxed. He had never seen her look that relaxed. Not once in three years.

He looked at the man she was leaning against.

Older. Sixties. Gray at the temples and broad across the shoulders. The kind of face that looked like it had made difficult decisions without blinking and slept fine afterward. He was smiling back at Sera the way you smile at someone you would do almost anything for.

Roman had seen that face before.

Not in person. In a file. Eight months ago, attached to a legal brief his security team had flagged during a routine review of third-party contacts. He pulled up a second tab and typed the name from the file.

The results loaded. News articles. Federal proceedings. An active investigation. Organized crime connections across four states, with two more under review.

Roman went back to Sera's photo.

She had her hand on the man's arm. She was smiling at him the way you smile at someone who has known your name since before you could say it yourself.

Not like a family friend.

Like family. Because he was.

Roman sat very still with both tabs open on his screen and his coffee going cold beside him.

...