Chapter 12 Ex Marks the Spot
EX MARKS THE SPOT
LUKE
“Sage? What are you doing here?” I hear before brown eyes meet mine. And then: “Luke Sterling. Interesting. What a surprise.”
The voice hits me like static—grating, self-satisfied, and familiar in the worst possible way.
I know that voice.
It’s recognizable by the slick, insincere cadence. By the smug delivery of my name like he’s chewing on it.
Like it tastes expensive but doesn’t quite go down smooth.
Derek. Fucking Manning.
CEO of CoreSyte.
Tech bro royalty in Seattle’s worst sense—he runs a mid-tier predictive analytics firm that pretends to be cutting-edge but mostly survives off venture buzz, brand partnerships, and VC smoke and mirrors.
I’ve seen him pitch. I’ve watched him steal ideas and repackage them in sleeker wrapping.
And I’ve never liked him.
Never trusted him.
Never respected him.
The fact that this is Sage’s ex?
I feel my jaw go tight. My spine locks into place.
Sage stiffens beside me, and I instantly slide my arm around her waist. She’s trembling—not visibly, not for anyone else to see—but I can feel it. A subtle tremor in the muscles beneath her skin.
And that’s all it takes.
My protective instincts flare into something hot and territorial.
"Derek," I acknowledge coolly. "I'd say it's a pleasure, but my grandmother raised me not to lie."
His smile falters. "I see you know Sage."
"I do." I pull her even closer. "We were just heading inside. If you'll excuse us—"
"Oh, but we should catch up!" The sparkly woman—Erica, I presume—bounces on her heels like an excited terrier. "Sage, I love your dress! Is it vintage?"
"It's—"
"Three years old," Derek interrupts, his eyes scanning Sage with an assessment that makes me want to punch him. "I remember when you bought it. For the company Christmas party, wasn't it? The one you didn't attend?"
“Yes.” Sage blinks. “Because you dumped me two days before.”
Fists tightening, I lean down, murmuring in Sage's ear, loud enough for this piece of shit to hear. "Dance with me."
"What?" Sage looks up at me, green eyes wide.
"The band is starting. Dance with me." I'm already guiding her past Derek and his disco ball girlfriend. "Excuse us. The waltz waits for no one."
"But—" Derek starts.
"Fascinating talking with you, Dennis," I call over my shoulder.
"It's Derek!"
"If you say so."
I sweep Sage onto the dance floor just as the band launches into a classic waltz.
She's still frozen, so I take the lead, pulling her into position.
"I don't really know how to waltz," she whispers.
“Follow my lead. And breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“No, you’re hyperventilating.”
I guide her into a basic waltz hold, keeping it simple, firm. Grounding. Her hand tightens on mine like she needs the anchor, and I give it to her.
“Eyes on me.”
She lifts her gaze, and there it is—that spark. Still there, even under the hurt.
"Luke—"
"Did you know that Derek has a receding hairline? It's quite dramatic. Like watching time-lapse photography of coastal erosion."
"Luke…”
"I'm just making observations. Very efficient observations." I spin her gently, pleased when she follows without stumbling. "Also, his date's dress is literally blinding other guests. I think the mayor's wife just walked into a column."
"Stop." But she's fighting a smile now.
"I'm serious. We might need to hand out protective eyewear." I dip her slightly, and her hand tightens on my shoulder. "You, on the other hand, look absolutely stunning."
"In my three-year-old dress?"
"Especially in your three-year-old dress." I pull her closer as we move across the floor. "It's elegant. Timeless. Like Grace Kelly, but with better taste in men."
"Grace Kelly married a prince."
"Who probably never dated someone named FootPrincess2000." I tighten my hand on Sage’s waist. “And did I mention that Derek Manning once tried to pitch a data mining product to one of my clients using our security language?”
Her brows lift.
“It didn’t go well,” I add. “He tried to bluff his way through the tech. Someone asked him to define encryption layers, and he panicked and quoted The Matrix.”
A breathless laugh escapes her.
I spin her gently. “He also once claimed CoreSyte’s API could ‘intuitively evolve on instinct,’ which I’m pretty sure is how werewolves work.”
“Oh my god.”
“He’s a walking pitch deck. All style, zero code.”
“So, you’ve hung out with him before?”
“I’ve avoided him before,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
And now—now I know exactly why my instincts flagged him.
He left this woman.
Sage.
He saw her value... and passed.
And that makes him the dumbest man in Seattle.
Which, frankly, is a competitive title.
I spin her again, then pull her back. "He's watching us, by the way. Looking constipated."
She glances over my shoulder. "Oh my god, he does look constipated."
"Probably the strain of dating someone young enough to be his daughter's older sister."
"That's a very specific age gap."
"I'm very good with numbers." The song is building to its crescendo, and I make a decision. "Trust me?"
"With what?"
Instead of answering, I sweep her into a dramatic dip, holding her suspended as the music swells. Her eyes go wide, but she doesn't panic, trusting me to hold her safe.
"Show off," she breathes.
"Efficiently showing off," I tell her, pulling her back up as the song ends.
Applause ripples across the dance floor, and I'm suddenly aware we've attracted attention. Several couples have stopped to watch, including—
"Oh shit," I mutter.
"What?"
"My grandmother. Two o'clock. Moving fast."
Sage turns to look, and I catch her hand. "No sudden movements. She can sense fear."
"Luke! There you are!" Nana Sterling appears as if summoned by dark magic, resplendent in navy silk and enough diamonds to fund a small country. "And this must be Sage!"
"Nana—"
"Don't 'Nana' me. You were holding out." She turns to Sage with laser focus. "He didn't tell me you could dance."
"I can't," Sage says. "Luke just—"
"Nonsense. I saw that dip. Very nice." She links her arm through Sage's, effectively stealing her. "Come. You must meet Eleanor Reeves. Connor's grandmother. We have so much to discuss."
"We do?" Sage looks back at me helplessly as my grandmother drags her away.
"About the wedding, of course!"
"What wedding?" I call after them, but they're already gone, absorbed into the crowd of Seattle's most terrifying matriarchs.
"That went well," a voice says behind me.
I turn to find Connor himself, looking amused. "Your grandmother kidnapped my date."
"Business non-date," he corrects. "And yes, they do that. It's like a pack hunting strategy." He hands me a whiskey. "Nice moves out there. Very non-robotic. Damn near romantic."
"I was removing Sage from an uncomfortable situation."
"By tangoing her into submission?"
"It was a waltz."
"Whatever it was, Derek Manning looks like someone pissed in his champagne." He nods toward the bar, where Derek is indeed glowering at us. "History there?"
"He's her ex. Left her for a twenty-two-year-old who sells foot pictures online."
Connor pauses mid-sip. "I'm sorry, what?"
"FootPrincess2000. It's a whole thing."
"And I thought my dating history was complicated." He claps me on the shoulder. "Good luck with the grandmothers. They've been planning our weddings since we were twelve."
He disappears into the crowd, leaving me to navigate the gala alone.
I make small talk with hospital board members, dodge questions about SafeStay's IPO timeline, and keep one eye on Sage, who appears to be holding her own in the grandmother gauntlet.
She's laughing at something Mrs. Reeves is saying, her head thrown back, and I'm struck by how natural she looks here.
Not like she's playing dress-up, as she claimed, but like she belongs.
"Staring is rude," Grayson appears at my elbow. "Even non-date staring."
"I'm not staring. I'm monitoring."
"She's doing fine. Better than fine, actually. I think your grandmother just offered to adopt her."
"What?"
"Kidding. Mostly." He grins. "So, FootPrincess2000?"
"Connor told you?"
"Connor told everyone. Alex is trying to find her Instagram as we speak."
I drain my whiskey. "I need better friends."
"You need to go rescue your girl before the grandmothers start picking china patterns."
He's right. I make my way through the crowd, intercepting just as Nana produces her phone.
"—and this is Luke at seven," she's saying, showing Sage what I know is a particularly embarrassing photo involving a Superman cape and a missing front tooth. "He insisted on wearing the cape to school every day for a month."
"Fascinating conversation," I interject, taking Sage's arm. "But we should go."
"Already?" Nana pouts. "But I haven't shown her the high school photos yet. You and Kevin looked so adorable at graduation.”
I don’t tell her that there’s nothing ‘adorable’ about my fucked-up cousin—her other grandson—and the horns he was probably hiding underneath his graduation cap.
I don’t tell her that he’s the same man he was seven years ago.
Still offering platitudes about “visiting” Veronica every week.
As if standing over marble can undo what they did. Or pretending flowers on a Lakeview grave somehow balance the ledger of his betrayal.
"Another time,” I decide to say instead, already backing away. "Sage has an early morning. Inn responsibilities."
"Of course." Nana's smile is knowing. "Sage, dear, it was lovely meeting you. We'll talk soon about Thanksgiving."
"Thanksgiving?" Sage asks as I guide her toward the exit.
"Ignore her. She's been planning imaginary family gatherings since I turned thirty."
"That's sweet, actually."
"That's terrifying."
We collect our coats and escape into the October night.
The rain has stopped, leaving the air crisp and clean. The limo is waiting, and I help Sage inside, following close behind.
"Thank you," she says as the car pulls away from the hotel. "For the dance. For getting me away from Derek. For not letting me spontaneously combust from embarrassment."