Art Donaldson didn’t get jealous easily. At least, that’s what he told himself.

He had the trophies, the endorsements, the cameras chasing his every move. He had the career. He had you.

But tonight—watching you talk to Patrick Zweig across the crowded hotel bar, the two of you laughing like you hadn’t shared a past—Art felt something dark and stupid boil in his chest.

Jealousy. Ugly and loud.

You looked radiant in a sleek black dress, your hand resting casually on the marble bar as Patrick leaned in just a little too close. And maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just small talk. But Art wasn’t thinking straight.

He knew your history. He knew theirs. He knew what it felt like to walk into a room and feel like he was the third one in a love story that had started long before he showed up.

You had picked him. You married him. But that didn’t mean the ghosts weren’t still there.

When you finally looked across the room and met Art’s eyes, you knew. You always knew when something was brewing in him.

You walked over, cool and calm, setting your drink down beside his untouched one.

“You good?” you asked, arching a brow.

Art gave a little laugh, low and bitter. “Sure. Just enjoying the show.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t do that.”

“What? Watch my wife flirt with her ex?”

You bristled, offended now. “Is that what you saw?”

“I saw him leaning in like he still thinks he’s got a chance. And I saw you not stopping it.”

There was a beat of silence, heavy with the weight of too many years of unspoken insecurity.

You stepped in close, lowering your voice. “I was being polite. For your sake. Because that man doesn’t rattle me anymore—but clearly he still rattles you.”

Art looked away, jaw clenched.

“I’m not afraid of him,” he muttered.

“No,” you said softly. “You’re afraid I regret choosing you.”

That hit like a serve straight to the chest.

You reached up, touched the collar of his shirt—gently, like you were anchoring him.

“Art. You’re the one I come home to. You’re the one who knows how I like my coffee, who’s seen me at my worst and still stays. He’s a memory. You’re my present.”

He looked at you then—really looked—and some of the tension drained from his shoulders.