How to Seduce the Ex (How To #5)

Chapter One

Dallas, Texas

Lyla

Hanging tulle from on of the aisle markers snags around my heel as I pivot across the marble floor, barely catching myself before I plow into a six-foot arrangement of imported peonies on a center table ahead. I steady the vase with one hand, juggle my coffee with the other, and keep moving.

“Lyla, please hurry.” The voice of Kiera Young—soon to be Knight—shakes through my phone. “The bustle just ripped. There’s fabric everywhere—”

“I’m coming. Thirty seconds.” I don’t slow down. “Breathe. You’re fine.”

She isn’t fine. But that’s why I’m here.

I push through the bridal-suite doors with my emergency kit in the inseam pocket of my dress.

Kiera stands in the center of the room in her Vera Wang gown, frozen in horror.

Pearls and thread scatter at her feet like evidence at a crime scene.

Her maid of honor and bestie, Kami Hernandez, is holding torn fabric in both hands like it might bite her.

“It’s ruined,” Kiera whispers.

“It’s not.” I drop to my knees, fingers already assessing the damage. “Kami, steamer. Now. Kiera, I need you to trust me.”

Trust.

That’s a word I use professionally at least fifty times a week. Brides trust me with the biggest day of their lives. Vendors trust my contracts. Venues trust my timelines.

I rebuild broken things for a living.

“Fifteen minutes,” I say calmly, threading a needle. “You’ll walk down that aisle flawless.”

My voice never wavers. My hands never shake. The chaos around me quiets because I don’t give it permission to stay loud.

Seven years of building Clark Events from nothing has trained me well. I don’t panic. I problem solve.

Fifteen minutes later, Kiera glides toward the altar like nothing ever happened. Jonathan Knight’s face softens when he sees her. The room fades for them. They look at each other like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

My chest tightens for half a second.

I swallow it down.

I orchestrate fairy tales. I don’t live inside them.

By the time the ceremony ends, my feet ache and my coffee is cold. I finally check my phone.

One new message.

Katie.

I open it expecting a vendor question.

Instead:

I can’t do this anymore. The stress is affecting my relationship. I need something more stable. I’m sorry.

There’s no notice. No warning. Just a clean exit.

I stare at the screen as the reception swells behind me—champagne popping, laughter rising, string quartet shifting into something upbeat.

Four hundred guests tomorrow for the Beckman wedding. A budget that rivals the revenue of small countries.

And now I’m alone.

I close my eyes briefly.

Control.

I handle it. I always handle it.

I text back something professional. Something gracious. Something I don’t feel.

Then I slide my phone into my clutch and walk back into the ballroom with a smile so seamless no one notices it’s glued on.

Two hours later, I find my bestie, Quinn, by the bar, glowing in a way that only women freshly in love do. Nathan Knight, Jonathan’s brother, has his arm around her waist, his thumb tracing lazy circles over her hip.

Easy. Comfortable. Certain.

“There she is,” Quinn says, pulling me into a hug. “I heard about the bustle incident.”

“Just another Saturday.” I accept the champagne she hands me. “You two are disgustingly happy.”

Nathan grins. “We aim to offend.”

They laugh together. Effortless.

I watch them for a second longer than I mean to.

After everything they survived—the public fallout, the separation—they chose each other again. Not because it was convenient. Because it was worth the fight.

“I’m glad I had front-row seats to the epic romance,” I say lightly.

Quinn bumps her shoulder against mine. “You’ll get yours.”

I smile in the exact way I’ve perfected for these moments.

“Sure.”

My phone vibrates again.

I almost ignore it, but habit wins.

Apex Entertainment

Subject: Congratulations, Lyla!

My stomach drops.

Congratulations. After reviewing thousands of applications, we are thrilled to offer you a spot on Paradise Found. Filming begins in two weeks…

Ten days. One hundred thousand dollars. National exposure.

The ballroom noise fades into a distant hum.

Breathing feels strange for a second.

Quinn leans over. “Is that what I think it is?”

“I applied months ago,” I admit quietly. “It was three in the morning. I was exhausted. It felt reckless.” I swallow. “They want me.”

Her eyes widen. “That’s incredible.”

It is. But it’s also terrifying.

The prize money would wipe out my remaining business loan. I could hire a full-time assistant. Expand. Stop operating in survival mode.

And if I’m being honest with myself, part of me is tired of endless dates that feel like interviews for a job neither of us really wants.

Maybe controlled chaos in paradise is easier than swiping through strangers.

Before I can think further, Nathan’s phone buzzes.

He glances down, frowning.

“Huh.”

“What?” Quinn asks.

“Our head of security just requested leave. Ten days.” He shrugs. “That’s rare.”

Something tightens in my stomach.

“Who?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral.

“Scott Bennett,” Nathan replies. “Former Marine. Hasn’t taken a day off once since he’s started working for us four months ago.”

The champagne turns to ice in my throat.

Scott Bennett.

The name hits like pressure shifting too fast in my ears.

Ten years collapse inward.

The last time I saw him, he was eighteen and promising me forever with his mouth on mine.

Then he was gone.

No fight. No goodbye. Just silence so complete it made me question whether any of it had been real.

And the whole time he was working for the Knights?

“Lyla?” Quinn asks softly.

“I-I’m fine,” I stammer through my lie.

I’m very much not fine.

Scott taking leave the same amount of time I’ll be gone?

It’s a coincidence. It has to be.

People don’t rearrange their lives for ghosts.

Later that night, I sit in my apartment with the acceptance email open on my laptop.

The glow from the screen washes the room in blue light. The city outside my window hums, distant and indifferent.

Paradise Found.

Tropical beaches. Curated romance. A fish bowl of an environment where everyone brings out their inner TV personality for money and fifteen minutes.

It’s almost laughable.

My dating history could be summarized as a promising start, slow unravel, then quiet disappointment.

The only exception is the one man who didn’t unravel.

He detonated.

I close my eyes and let the memory surface, just once.

His truck parked by the lake. The smell of gasoline and summer air. His hands always warm, always sure. The way he used to say my name like it belonged to him.

And then—nothing. Silence.

I spent months wondering what I did wrong. Replaying every conversation. Every touch.

Eventually the exhaustion won.

You can only bleed over a ghost for so long before you build scar tissue. I built a business instead.

Structure. Contracts. Clear expectations. Predictable outcomes.

Love isn’t predictable. But money is. Exposure is. Paradise Found is leverage.

That’s all it is.

I click Reply. I accept.

The second I send it, a strange calm settles in my chest.

This is strategic. Smart. And most definitely not about him.

I shut the laptop and walk to my bedroom, shedding my blazer, my heels, the perfectly composed wedding planner persona.

In the mirror, my reflection looks steady. Controlled. Competent. Not like a woman who still feels a flicker of something at the sound of a name she hasn’t spoken in a decade.

“Please let it be coincidence,” I murmur to the empty room.

Because if it’s not… If he knew… If he’s anywhere near this… I don’t know what version of myself he’ll meet.

The girl he left behind doesn’t exist anymore. And the woman standing here doesn’t break easily.

I climb into bed and turn off the light.

Ten days in paradise. Ten days under cameras. Ten days that could help my business in the long run.

It’s opportunity. It’s exposure. It’s controlled risk. It has nothing to do with Scott Bennett. I repeat that to myself until sleep takes me. And I don’t dream.

Scott

The Bennett estate gates groan open as I pull through, the sound dragging up the long drive like the house itself is clearing its throat to remind me who used to own me.

I park directly in front of the main entrance—something that would’ve set my father off—and kill the engine. The mansion I’ve been avoiding for the four months since I’ve been back looms ahead, all columns and quiet judgment. Every window stares like an accusing eye.

I’m not here to reminisce.

Fuck no.

The final estate paperwork waits in his study. Signatures, transfer documents, legal loose ends—clean cuts through a life I never asked for. The last threads of a fortune and business I’m shocked I even inherited and certainly didn’t earn in the eyes of my father, but I’ll damn well use.

I step out of the truck. Cold air bites my lungs, sharp as a blade. The driveway crunches beneath my boots.

The house smells the same when I push inside—polish and old wood, laced with something stale, like control seeped into the walls. It’s quiet. Too quiet.

He’s been dead for months, and I still feel him here, a ghost in the bones of this place.

The hall echoes as I walk, my footsteps steady. My body knows this house. Every corner. Every blind spot. Every place a boy learned to stay silent.

When I reach the study, the room looks exactly how I remember it. Heavy desk. Leather chair. Neatly stacked files, as if he planned to come back. The portrait above the fireplace stares down, his face carved in oil—cold power, a man who believed to be loved was to be feared.

I drop the folder onto the desk and exhale through my nose.

Ten years in the Marines burned away a lot. The flinch. The doubt. But not all of it. Not the part of me that still aches for her.

Lyla.

Her name strikes me like light a bolt of lightning, sharp and immediate. I don’t say it out loud. I don’t need to.