Chapter 143

Vivian strode forward with purpose, stopping inches from the karaoke stage where Ethan sat surrounded by giggling escorts. She fixed her gaze on the pretty boy currently sharing his microphone.

"Move," she commanded, pointing to the empty spot beside Ethan. "That's my seat."

The young man—clearly the bar's top-paid entertainer—barely glanced up from the screen. His practiced smirk didn't waver as he adjusted his glittery headset. "Get a number, sweetheart. I don't care if you're the queen of England—this spot's taken."

Vivian's nails dug into her palms. "I'm his ex-wife."

That earned her a dramatic eye-roll. The escort draped himself possessively over Ethan's shoulder. "And I'm tonight's entertainment. Unless you plan on singing Whitney Houston, scram."

She gaped at his audacity. Since when did karaoke hustlers develop this level of attitude?

The boy snapped his fingers near her face. "Hello? Earth to bitter ex-wife? We're trying to enjoy our private time here." His voice dripped with exaggerated sweetness, each syllable pitched higher than the last.

Vivian recoiled. That falsetto could shatter glass.

Ethan chose that moment to lurch upright, nearly toppling the cocktail table. His whiskey-glazed eyes locked onto Vivian like she was the only steady thing in the spinning room.

Before she could react, his hands framed her face—hot, rough palms cradling her cheeks with startling gentleness. Then he squished her features together like playdough.

"Ethan Blackwood, I swear to god—"

"You're real," he murmured, thumbs smoothing over the apples of her cheeks. A drunk, beatific smile spread across his face. "Not another dream."

The microphone hit her chest with a thud.

"Sing."

Vivian stared at the device now clutched in her fingers. On screen, the opening notes of "The Outside World" began playing—a song she hadn't heard since their honeymoon.

The remaining escorts vanished with one sharp look from Ethan. Suddenly it was just them, the neon lights, and three years of unsaid words hanging between the lyrics.

His calloused fingers brushed hers as he adjusted the mic. "Please."

That single word undid her. It carried the same raw vulnerability as that drunken night months ago, when he'd whispered confessions against her skin.

Vivian stepped back, heart hammering. "Do you even remember what happened last time?"

The song's chorus swelled around them, the answer hanging in the charged silence.