Oops.. I Fell for My Ex Again

The Blackout

Alexandra Wolfe had survived three years without Dominic Moretti. She could survive one more night in the same room.

That was the lie she told herself as she stepped into the Metropolitan Club ballroom, smile polished, spine straight, the perfect image of a CEO who had everything under control.

Crystal chandeliers scattered light across silk gowns and tailored tuxedos. A string quartet played something soft and expensive. Investors laughed too loudly near the champagne tower. WolfeTech’s logo glowed discreetly on a sponsor wall behind her.

Her company. Her name. Her life.

All built after she walked away from him.

“Smile,” Maya murmured at her side, pressing a glass of sparkling water into her hand. “You look like you’re about to negotiate a hostage situation.”

“I am,” Alex said under her breath. “It’s called networking.”

Maya followed her gaze across the room and winced. “Oh.”

Dominic stood near the far bar, deep in conversation with a senator and two venture capitalists. Black tux. Perfect posture. That same quiet gravity that made people lean in when he spoke.

Three years, and her body still reacted like he was a live wire.

Her pulse kicked. Her throat went dry. Instinct screamed run.

Instead, she lifted her chin.

“I’m leaving in ten minutes,” she told Maya.

“You just got here.”

“I’ve been seen. Donation confirmed. Mission accomplished.”

Maya squeezed her hand. “You’re okay?”

“I’m great,” Alex said, already stepping backward. “Watch me disappear.”

She didn’t look at Dominic again.

Not until Maya grabbed her arm. “Wait. Eleanor’s here.”

Alex's stomach clenched.”

Across the room, Eleanor Moretti stood near the event director, elegant in cream silk, silver hair twisted into a flawless chignon. She laughed lightly at something, hand resting on the woman’s arm—warm, gracious, lethal.

Even from across the ballroom, Alex felt the weight of her gaze.

Watching.

Measuring.

Alex turned away first.

“I’m done,” she muttered. “I’m not giving either of them another second of my night.”

She slipped toward the VIP elevator bank—one perk of being a major sponsor, heels clicking against marble, breath steadying with each step.

She pressed the call button.

The doors opened immediately.

For once, something in her life moved exactly on time.

She stepped inside and exhaled.

Safe.

The doors slid shut.

The elevator hummed upward.

Then it stopped.

Alex frowned. They hadn’t reached the lobby yet.

The doors opened again.

Dominic Moretti stepped in.

Alex's lungs forgot how to work.

“Alexandra.”

He said her name the same way he used to at two AM—low, careful, like it meant something.

She straightened. “Dominic.”

He pressed the lobby button. The doors closed. Silence sealed them in.

The elevator rose.

She focused on the glowing numbers above the door.

Ten.

Eleven.

Twelve.

“You’re leaving early,” he said.

“I have an early meeting.”

A pause. “You always were a terrible liar.”

She turned sharply. “And you were always too controlling to let anything go.”

His jaw tightened. “Three years, Alex. I let you go for three years.”

“Did you?” She gestured between them. “Or did you just wait for the next opportunity to corner me?”

His mouth twitched. “You think I orchestrated this?”

The lights flickered.

The elevator jolted violently.

Everything went dark.

Alex grabbed the wall as the car shuddered to a stop.

Emergency lights blinked on—dim, red, unreal.

“What just happened?”

Dominic checked his phone, already moving into problem-solving mode. “No signal. Emergency line’s dead.”

The hum of Manhattan—traffic, life, noise—was gone.

He looked up at her. “Citywide blackout.”

Of course it was.

Of course the universe would trap her in a metal box with the one man she couldn’t face.

Alex slid down the wall, heels discarded, pulse racing.

“We could be here a while,” Dominic said quietly, loosening his tie.

“Don’t,” she snapped. “Don’t do that calm voice like I’m overreacting.”

“I’m not saying you are.”

“You’re thinking it.”

“I’m thinking you’ve always been stronger than you realize.”

She laughed once, sharp. “You don’t know me anymore.”

His gaze dropped to her wrist. “You’re still wearing the watch I gave you.”

She looked down. The vintage Cartier.

Damn it.

“It tells time,” she said. “That’s all.”

Silence stretched tight between them.

“How’s WolfeTech?” he asked.

“You read the reports.”

“I still like hearing it from you.”

“Don’t,” she warned. “Don’t act proud of me. You lost that right.”

“I never stopped being proud of you,” he said quietly. “Even when you hated me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

The words slipped out.

His eyes darkened. “Then what do you feel?”

Too much.

“Why did you really divorce me?” he asked. “Not the lawyer’s version.”

She laughed softly, but it broke halfway through. “Because I was suffocating. You loved me like something fragile. Every decision, you hovered. Every risk, you blocked. I couldn’t breathe.”

“I was trying to keep you safe.”

“From living?”

His voice went raw. “From ending up like our mothers.”

That landed.

Her voice dropped. “My mom died at thirty-eight. I watched her collapse in our kitchen. I know what that fear feels like.”

“Then why wouldn’t you let me help you carry it?”

“Because I’d rather live five years free than fifty years trapped.”

He flinched.

“Was I really a cage to you?”

“You were everything,” she whispered. “That’s why I had to leave.”

He crossed the small space in two strides and knelt in front of her.

“Alex—”

“Don’t.”

“I think about you every day,” he said. “I rebuilt my entire life trying not to. It didn’t work.”

Her breath shook.

“Tell me you don’t feel this,” he said, hand cupping her face. “Tell me three years erased us, and I’ll walk away.”

She couldn’t.

So he kissed her.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was grief and anger and memory colliding.

When the lights snapped back on and the elevator lurched into motion, they broke apart, breathing hard.

“This is a mistake,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“We can’t—”

“I know.”

The doors opened to the lobby.

Freedom.

She stepped out.

“Goodbye, Dominic.”

"Come home with me."

She froze.

"One night," he said. "No future. No promises."

Every instinct screamed no. She should walk away. She should protect herself.

But three years of distance hadn't killed what she felt.

"One night," she heard herself say.

—

She woke to sunlight and cold sheets.

Alone.

Panic crashed in.

She dressed fast, heart pounding, and slipped out.

On his nightstand sat a framed photo from their wedding day.

She didn’t let herself touch it.

She ran.

—

Across the city, Eleanor Moretti folded her napkin with quiet satisfaction.

“Phase one,” she murmured.

The game had begun.

—

Dominic stared at the empty side of his bed.

He wasn’t surprised she’d gone.

But the loss still hit like fresh glass under the skin.

He picked up their wedding photo.

Three years apart.

One night, and he was ruined all over again.

He crossed to his desk and opened a secure file.

Clinical update: Phase Three cardiac trials beginning. Mortality risk remains high.

He typed a single word.

Proceed.

He stared at the screen long after it dimmed.

Three months.

That was the outside estimate if Alexandra carried the gene.

Three months to perfect an illegal surgery.

Three months to save the woman who would never forgive him for trying.

And if he failed—

She would die without ever knowing he had already risked everything to keep her alive.