The Divorced Military Queen Awakens (by Sadie Baxter) novel Chapter 307

Stop right there. For heaven’s sake, Laura, where is your mind galloping off to?

Weston’s voice cut through the cabin. “Staring at me like that—regretting the breakup?”

“Not even close.” Laura yanked her gaze back to the windshield. Decisively ending things back then was, in her book, the single smartest move she had ever made.

Had she hesitated, she might have fallen for that dangerously handsome face all over again.

Weston leaned in, his voice a blade cutting through the hum outside the windshield. “Do yourself a favor, darling. When we sit down, bury whatever pride is left. No one at that table can know you dumped me without regret.”

Laura shot him a sideways glare, lashes flicking upward like drawn blades. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

Weston settled back, expression unmoved, eyes catching reflections of neon rain. “It means you’d better act like breaking up was the worst mistake of your life, and that right now you are hopelessly in love with me.”

Laura’s brow tightened. “Weston, it’s only a dinner meeting. Surely we don’t have to go that far.”

He did not blink. “We do,” he said, the words striking like frost on glass.

The sedan rolled to a graceful stop before a private club, its headlights washing the limestone façade in pale silver. Laura stepped out first, heels tapping like nervous metronomes. Weston matched her stride, guiding her through bronze doors and down a hush-carpeted corridor into an intimate private suite.

The moment they crossed the threshold, a jovial voice rose above the murmurs. “Mr. Windore, at last. We thought you were going to stand us up.”

A second guest, eyes sharp with curiosity, tilted his glass toward Laura. “And this lady is?”

Weston slipped an arm around her waist with practiced ease. “My girlfriend, Laura Wentworth,” he announced.

An electric ripple traveled through the room. Stares flicked her way—some surprised, some amused, some unreadable shadows of something else entirely.

Weston began the social waltz, naming each face—finance magnates, media brokers, consultants—drawing invisible threads between Laura and the power network that fueled Jexburgh.

Listening, Laura felt a quiet jolt run through her. These were not ordinary names; each belonged to a pillar in Jexburgh’s elite circles.

Her own start-up had turned a tidy profit, yet in front of these titans, she suddenly felt like a freshman who had wandered into a graduate seminar. On any other night, meeting even one of them would have taken months of strategic networking and an improbable stroke of luck. Yet Weston was serving her the entire directory on a silver platter, as though opening doors were as effortless as breathing.

Laura offered handshakes and warm nods, her manners precise, her smile measured, determined not to betray the churn in her stomach.

Someone chuckled. “Never thought the great Mr. Windore had a girlfriend. We were this close to pairing you with Serena here.”

Conversation tilted, chairs turned. Every gaze now settled on a woman whose presence felt like moonlight drawn indoors.

The woman, Serena Wynn, wore an ivory suit dress, its clean lines accentuating a cool, almost austere grace.

She offered a mild smile. “Oh, you exaggerate. I could never measure up to Mr. Windore. He’s always treated me like a junior colleague. Besides, Ms. Wentworth’s name rings a bell—it sounds a lot like his ex’s.”

That single remark shifted the atmosphere yet again; curious, probing stares converged on Laura as though she were suddenly under a theater spotlight.

What a joke. In a year we’ll be strangers again.

Laura rolled her eyes, amused by the revisionist history on display. Back then, I was the one left bleeding, not him.

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