My Ex-Wife's New Husband - Romance Novel

The rain hissed against the café windows, turning Brooklyn into a watercolor smear. Ethan hadn’t planned to be here. He hadn’t planned to see *her* here, either. But there she was, ten feet away, laughing at something the man beside her said. Clara’s laugh—still bright, still careless—cut through the hum of espresso machines. The man leaned forward, his wedding band glinting as he stirred his coffee.

Ethan’s throat tightened. *Daniel*. The name tasted like a pill he couldn’t swallow.

“You’re staring,” said Mira, his coworker, snapping him back.

“That’s my ex-wife,” he muttered.

Mira raised an eyebrow. “And the guy?”

“Her *upgrade*.”

Clara’s eyes flickered toward him then. Her smile faltered. Daniel followed her gaze.

“Ethan. Hi.”

“Clara.”

Daniel extended a hand. “Daniel Hartman. You must be Ethan.”

Ethan ignored the gesture. “Must I?”

“*Ethan*,” Clara said sharply.

Daniel retracted his hand, unfazed. “Clara’s told me a lot about you.”

“All good, I’m sure.”

“Mostly how you hate cilantro and love *The Clash*.”

Ethan blinked. Clara hadn’t mentioned *that* in their divorce.

“We were just leaving,” Clara said quietly.

Daniel glanced at her. “Actually, why don’t you two catch up? I’ll grab the car.”

He stood, dropping a $20 bill on the table. Ethan watched him stride out, umbrella-less, into the rain.

“Chivalrous guy,” Ethan mocked.

Clara’s voice turned cold. “He’s kinder than you think.”

“Why’d you bring him *here*? This was *our* place.”

“It’s just coffee, Ethan. Not a shrine.”

Silence pooled between them. The barista called out a forgotten order.

“You look tired,” Clara said softly.

Ethan grinned bitterly. “Divorce fatigue. You should try it.”

She stood. “We’re not doing this.”

The bell jangled behind her as she left. Ethan stared at Daniel’s abandoned coffee—black, no sugar. *Just like mine*, he realized.

---

Daniel answered the door in a linen shirt, sleeves rolled up. “Ethan. Glad you came.”

Clara’s new loft was all minimalist curves and sunlight. Ethan gripped the wine bottle like a weapon.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he replied dryly.

Clara emerged from the kitchen, apron dusted with flour. “You brought the Malbec? Daniel loves Malbec.”

Daniel took the bottle. “Let’s open it now. Ethan, ever been to Mendoza?”

They sat at a marble table. Daniel talked vineyards, Clara interjected with work anecdotes, and Ethan counted the ceiling tiles.

“Ethan’s a copywriter,” Clara said suddenly. “He wrote that subway ad—*‘Ride the Chaos.*’”

Daniel looked impressed. “That was you? Clara quotes it all the time.”

Ethan froze. Clara’s cheeks flushed.

“You kept that?” he asked quietly.

She avoided his gaze. “It was clever.”

Daniel excused himself to check the lamb.

“Why’d you invite me, Clara?” Ethan’s voice was low.

“I wanted you to see… we’re okay. All of us.”

He laughed. “You need *me* to absolve *you*?”

“I need you to stop pretending I ruined your life,” she said, her tone steely.

Daniel returned with a plate. “Pro tip: rosemary under the skin.”

Ethan watched him carve the meat, precise and effortless. *This is what she wants*, he thought. *Competence. Calm*.

“Clara says you’re a jazz pianist,” Daniel said, handing him a plate.

“Was,” Ethan replied stiffly.

Daniel grinned. “I’m a terrible guitarist. Maybe you could teach me?”

Ethan’s knife screeched against the plate.

---

The dive bar’s neon sign buzzed. Daniel nursed a bourbon, sleeves rolled past his tattoos.

“You loved her differently than I do,” he said suddenly.

Ethan glared. “You don’t know how I loved her.”

Daniel shrugged. “I know she still has your letters. And that you hate birthdays because your dad left on one.”

Ethan’s glass stalled mid-sip.

“She didn’t leave you because you were broken, Ethan,” Daniel said softly. “She left because you refused to fix it.”

Ethan stood, chair scraping. But the anger felt thin, rehearsed.

“Why’d you marry her?” His voice was hoarse.

Daniel paused. “Same reason you did. She feels like home.”

Outside, the rain had stopped. Ethan texted Mira: *Drink tomorrow?*

He didn’t look back.