Running Into My Ex While Black Friday Shopping

One of Benedict's friends stepped forward, a tall man with graying temples who I vaguely remembered from years ago. His expression was apologetic, almost pleading.

"Fiona, please," he said, his voice carrying that false gentleness people use when they think you're being unreasonable. "You have to understand. Benedict went crazy when you left six years ago. He couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. He was hospitalized twice. The man loves you so much he couldn't function without you."

Love. That word coming from his mouth made my stomach turn. I tightened my grip on John's shoulder, feeling him shake against my leg.

"That's not love," I managed, my voice breaking. "That's—"

But Benedict cut me off, reaching toward me with one hand. The movement made me flinch instinctively, my body remembering what my mind tried to forget. "Stop playing these games, Fiona. You know where you belong. You know who you belong to."

His fingers were inches from my face when a voice cut through the tension like a blade.

"She is my wife."

Edmund.

I turned my head so fast I felt dizzy. He stood ten feet away, flanked by two bodyguards in dark suits, his presence commanding every eye in the corridor. Relief flooded through me so powerfully my knees nearly buckled. Edmund's gaze swept over the scene, taking in Benedict's outstretched hand, John's tears, my trembling stance. His jaw tightened, but when he spoke, his voice remained steady, controlled.

"Your behavior has hurt my wife and frightened my child," he continued, moving forward with measured steps until he stood between Benedict and me. His back was straight, his shoulders squared, and there was something in his posture that made even the crowd step back. "This ends now."

The words carried absolute authority, the kind that came from someone who'd never needed to raise his voice to be heard.

Benedict's face went through a series of rapid changes—confusion, disbelief, then something dark and twisted. "Wife?" The word came out strangled. "No. No, that's not—she wouldn't—"

"Daddy!" John broke free from my grip and ran to Edmund, who scooped him up without taking his eyes off Benedict.

"You're lying," Benedict said, but there was desperation creeping into his voice now. "She couldn't have married someone else. She's mine. She's always been mine."

Then he lunged.

It happened so fast. One moment Benedict was standing with his friends, the next he was reaching for me, trying to grab my arm, shouting words I couldn't process through the roaring in my ears. "You belong with me! You can't just—"

Edmund's bodyguards moved like shadows, intercepting Benedict before his fingers could touch me. They restrained him professionally, their hands firm on his shoulders and arms, but Benedict thrashed against them, his face contorted with rage.

"Let me go! Fiona! Fiona, tell them! Tell them we belong together!"

Edmund turned to me, John still in his arms, and extended his free hand. "Come here."

I took it. His palm was warm, steady, real. The moment our fingers connected, something in my chest unclenched just enough to let me breathe.

"You're making a mistake!" Benedict's voice cracked as Edmund guided us away, his bodyguards maintaining their hold. "She'll come back to me! She always comes back!"

Mall security was rushing toward the commotion now, radios crackling. The crowd parted for us as Edmund led us through, his hand never leaving mine. Behind us, Benedict's screams grew louder, more incoherent.

"Sir," one of the bodyguards said quietly, "we'll ensure he doesn't follow."

Edmund nodded once, his expression unreadable.

The parking garage felt like a different world—quieter, darker, the holiday music reduced to a distant hum. Edmund unlocked the car and settled John in his booster seat before opening the passenger door for me. My hands were still shaking so badly I couldn't manage the seatbelt. Edmund reached over and clicked it into place, his movements gentle, patient.

The drive home started in heavy silence. John's sniffles from the back seat were the only sound until his small voice broke through.

"Mommy? Who was that scary man?"

I opened my mouth but nothing came out. How could I possibly explain?

"Why was he so angry?" John continued, his voice wobbling. "Did we do something bad?"

"No, sweetheart," Edmund said, his tone calm and reassuring in a way I couldn't manage. "Sometimes grown-ups have complicated problems. But the important thing is that you're safe. We're all safe."

"But he said Mommy belonged to him." John's words were so innocent, so confused. "But Mommy belongs with us. Right?"

"Right," Edmund confirmed, squeezing my hand. "Your mother is exactly where she belongs."

I stared out the window, watching the city lights blur past. Edmund's hand remained locked with mine, his thumb tracing small circles on my palm. But I couldn't feel it. Couldn't feel anything except the echo of Benedict's voice, the ghost of his reaching hand, the terror in John's crying.

Six years. I'd had six years of peace, of building a life, of almost believing I could forget.

But seeing Benedict's face again, hearing that voice—it was like no time had passed at all.

And somewhere in the depths of my mind, where nightmares lived, I heard another voice. Younger, colder, feminine.

Claire.

If Benedict was back, how long until she followed?