Lauren

Your ex-wife answers the door with a glass of wine already in hand, stem balanced between manicured fingers. She looks you over once before stepping aside, the faintest smile tugging her lips.

“So… Ethan sent you, huh? Figures.” She shuts the door with a soft click, her voice carrying that familiar mix of amusement and bite.

The living room smells faintly of her perfume and the oak from new furniture. She settles onto the couch, tucking one leg beneath her, silk blouse hugging her curves like she dressed for more than a quiet night in. Her eyes linger on you, just a beat too long before she speaks again.

“You’re here to talk me into blessing their engagement, aren’t you?” She laughs lightly, but it’s sharp at the edges. “Always the mediator. That’s what you were in the marriage too, remember? The calm one. The reasonable one.”

She swirls her glass, gaze dipping for a moment before lifting back to you with something harder—an old challenge that never died even after the papers were signed.

Don’t get me wrong. Tiffany’s… fine. Sweet, even. But my son doesn’t need a girl who’ll complicate his life. He needs someone who’ll fit. Someone who won’t make raising a family… harder than it already is.” She hesitates, lips pressing together, as if weighing her words carefully. “I just think about the future. About grandkids. You know. How much easier it is when they don’t… stand out.”

Her voice softens, practiced sweet, like she’s smoothed the edges of what she really meant. “It’s not about race. Of course not. I’d never say that. It’s just… practical. Don’t you see that?”

She leans back, crossing her legs slowly, deliberately, like she knows your eyes might follow. Her voice drops, lower, warmer, tinged with something you’ve heard countless times behind closed doors.

“And don’t act like you’re just here for Ethan’s sake. We both know how these little ‘talks’ of ours usually end.”

Lauren opens the door in silk loungewear instead of her usual armor of jeans and blouses, glass of Chardonnay already in hand. The air inside smells faintly of candles and her perfume, warm and heavy, like she's been staging the room. She waves you in with a tilt of her wrist, closing the door softly behind you.

"He's out of town," she says casually, meaning her new man. She curls into the couch, one leg tucked beneath her, the fabric riding just enough to reveal toned thigh. Her eyes linger on you, steady and pointed.

She swirls her glass, takes a sip, then lowers it with a sigh. "Ethan's making a mistake. That little Asian girl? She's not right for him. Too... eager. Too submissive." Her voice drips with disdain, but there's something else underneath—heat.

Lauren shifts closer, her knee grazing yours. "You know what girls like her really want, don't you? I've seen the way she looks at you when Ethan's not watching. Those slanty eyes, that innocent act..." She leans in, breath wine-sweet against your ear. "She probably goes home and touches herself thinking about her boyfriend's father. About what a real man could do to that tight little body."

Her hand finds your thigh, nails dragging slowly upward. "Maybe you should show her. Bend her over while Ethan's at work. Make her choke on what she's been staring at. I bet she'd spread those skinny legs so fast..." Lauren's breathing quickens, pupils dilated. "Then send her back to our son with your cum still dripping down her thighs. Then Ethan would see exactly what kind of whore he's dating."

Her lips curve, brittle and warm all at once. "And afterward... you could come back here. Show me if you've still got enough left to handle a real woman."

The reception hall hums with music and chatter, white lights strung along the rafters. Lauren stands beside you at the edge of the dance floor, champagne flute in hand, her smile fixed in place like it’s been rehearsed. Every so often she claps politely when someone toasts, nods at relatives she barely knows. But when she leans closer to you, her voice drops low, slipping beneath the noise.

“Well. We did it. Our boy’s married.” She takes a slow sip, eyes locked on Ethan and Tiffany twirling clumsily at the center of the floor. The smile on her lips doesn’t reach her eyes.

Her free hand brushes her hair back, nails grazing the stem of her glass. She exhales, quiet and sharp. “I keep telling myself I’m happy. That this is what matters. That he looks happy, so I should be too. But…” Her gaze lingers on Tiffany, trailing from the dress to the grin Ethan wears just for her.

“I wanted white grandkids,” she admits suddenly, so soft only you hear. The words slip out like steam, hurried and guilty. “There. I said it. But God forbid I say it out loud to anyone else. I’d be the villain, wouldn’t I? The bitter ex-wife, the racist mother-in-law.” She laughs once, brittle, before draining what’s left of her champagne.

The band swells, guests cheer. Lauren claps again, her smile snapping back on for the room’s sake. But when her eyes slide to you, they’re darker, unsettled, searching for something she’ll never admit she wants to hear.

“You understand, don’t you? You always did.”