Sweet Romance10 min read
How to Date an Older Man (and Make the Ex Regret It)
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I have a rule about exes: never make them comfortable watching you suffer. I kept that rule in theory and then discovered how much better it is to watch them get uncomfortable instead.
"I can't believe he cheated on you," Audrey shouted into my ear over the bar's music as she poked my shoulder.
"Neither can I," I hiccupped, trying to sound tougher than I felt. "Apparently I'm very easy to replace."
"You are not replaceable," Audrey said. "You're Kaede Barrett. You're legendary."
"Legendary at being dumped," I muttered. "Legendary at crying into bad wine."
"You are not drinking more." Audrey shoved the glass out of my hand. "Come with me to the bathroom."
"I will, but don't leave me," I said, because when a friend says "don't leave me" at a bar, she actually means "get me out of here before I call my ex and wreck everything."
I staggered to the restroom and then decided to get some air. Someone bumped me, the red wine in my hand sloshed, and it landed on the white shirt of a man standing near me.
"Oh my God—I'm so sorry," I blurted.
The man smiled like it wasn't my fault at all.
"Don't worry. It's not ruined," he said, and then winked. "Well, it is a little ruined, but I can live."
"How much? I'll pay—" I started.
"Fifty grand," he said casually.
"Fifty—what?" I laughed because that was ridiculous.
He smiled in a way that was almost cruel and almost kind, and a stupid idea popped out of my mouth. "I have no money. Want to accept a different payment? Say, a date?"
He blushed, and I blinked. Men my age never blushed. That made me bolder. "Or... I could—" I said and then laughed at myself. "I'm joking."
"You're funny," he said. "I'm Levi. Levi Vorobyov."
"Kaede," I said, and then bolted when Audrey reappeared. "Wait, text me. Promise?"
He texted that night: Kaede, rest. He added a little cat emoji. I tucked my phone away and told myself I wouldn't take the bait of an older man with kind eyes and a crooked smile who said things like "rest" and "I'll send you a cat meme."
A day later, after a morning of meetings that left my head ringing, I opened my phone to a message from Levi. He'd sent a voice note: Are you alive? He ended it with a laugh and a suggestion for dinner. I deleted the voice note and replied: Not tonight. I have plans to sulk.
He didn't press. He asked one more time. "Do you want to meet? No pressure. I can drive you somewhere."
I almost didn't answer, but the memory of a stranger in a bar who'd saved me from something uglier than a stained shirt nudged me toward curiosity. "Okay. But only because I owe you for the shirt."
He laughed in a way that made me want to hear more of his laugh. "Deal."
The first time Levi saved me for real was the night a drunk man followed me home. I had a threadbare courage and a pounding heart. When the man moved closer, slurring and reaching, Levi appeared from nowhere and shoved me back into safety like he had rehearsed rescues.
"Stay behind me," he said as if it was a small, ordinary order.
He fought like a man used to being in charge. He beat the drunk without making it a spectacle. Then he sat and wrapped a towel around his arm where the drunk's knife had nicked him. "I'm fine," he said.
"I should call an ambulance." I fumbled with my phone.
"Just call the police for now. And stay near me." He handed me his warm jacket. "You're shaking like a leaf."
"You saved me," I said, voice thin.
"You're welcome." He grinned, and it felt like oxygen in my chest.
At his place he made me tea, and I learned things: he liked black coffee, his books were neatly arranged, and he had a white Ragdoll cat with two different eyes that slept like a small, arrogant king. He introduced the cat as Little Sweetie and scolded me when I used my full name too casually.
"Little Sweetie," he said, scratching the cat's behind. "She's suspicious of everyone."
"Kind of like me," I said. "Suspicious and hungry."
"Do you want dinner?" He asked.
"Do you repair shirts for free?" I teased.
We laughed, and I told him about the affair, the betrayal, the way Eliot had laughed with someone else in my kitchen in the middle of the night. When I blurted out his name—a name that sounded full of arrogance—I couldn't stop a bitter laugh.
"You look like him," I admitted then. "He, I mean—he and this other girl—"
Levi didn't react badly. He only smiled a little, the smile that made me remember his first kindness in the bar, and then he said, "I'm not him."
"Obviously not," I said, but every time he smiled I saw Eliot's face and my stomach shrank.
Days turned into something else. Levi showed up more than any man I'd met. He cooked, he listened, he teased. He didn't rush me into anything physical. He waited with a patience that felt like a luxury.
One morning I woke up in his bed with a fuzzy hangover and the weirdest feeling that I had escaped something and landed in something safer.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. I saw a message preview: "Dad, are you home? I'm coming over." My blood froze. Eliot had texted Levi and called him Dad.
For a ridiculous second I schemed even harder. If I could be the woman who made Eliot jealous—even better if I could be the woman who made him squirm in front of his friends—then maybe the whole humiliation circus would be complete.
That afternoon, I nearly ran. "Levi, your—your son texted you 'Dad'?" I stammered.
He looked up from his coffee, amused. "Yes. My nephew calls me that sometimes. Family's complicated."
"Your nephew?" A wrongness settled in my belly, but curiosity kept me.
He nodded. "Eliot is... part of the family by complicated reasons. It's messy, but I care about him."
I didn't know why I felt oddly proud and oddly vindictive. Maybe because I loved the way Levi said "family" like it included me, not like it shut me out.
Audrey was thrilled when I announced, a week later, that Levi and I were "dating." "You got an adult who gets things done," she declared. "Also, look at your revenge potential."
"I just want to heal," I said, which was partly true. The other part was that I enjoyed seeing Eliot's discomfort when we bumped into him at a café. He'd stare, and then his face would go from smug to hollow.
At first, Eliot's attempts were small—hurtful comments, a well-timed come-on with Keilani at my workplace. He and Keilani paraded like they were auditioning for a melodrama.
One day, a stupid beach party turned into the arena I had been waiting for. Eliot had used a friend to invite me and then produced a ridiculous display: flowers, candles, and a huge heart in the sand that read "I LOVE Y—" like someone had lost patience with spelling.
He ran up to me with a bouquet of wildflowers and grabbed me. "Kaede, I'm sorry. I was an idiot. Come back to me. Let's—"
"Get off," I said. People crowded. Tourists pointed. Keilani screamed about me being shameless. I heard the bile in her voice. She tried to slap me and got held back by some strangers.
"Stop making a scene," someone hissed.
"I won't," I said and pulled away. "Get out of my face."
That was when Levi appeared. He was in a suit like he'd been called to a meeting but chose to come instead. He walked through the crowd with a calm that made everything else feel small.
"Eliot," he said, and the single word made the air change.
Eliot stopped. "What? This is—"
"This isn't how you treat women," Levi said, and his voice wasn't loud, but it carried.
"She started this," Eliot snapped.
Levi didn't get angry at my expense. He placed himself between Eliot and me. "Stand down."
Eliot laughed like a man who had always expected people to obey him. "Or what? You'll tell my dad?"
"I will tell everyone what's true," Levi said.
"What's true?" Eliot demanded.
Levi pulled his phone out and said, "I have a slideshow."
The crowd quieted. Tourists turned their cameras from touristy sunset shots to the small drama unfolding. Someone recorded. Someone else prodded others to look. Eliot's face paled.
Levi tapped play. The projector was actually a tablet, which he raised. Pictures unfolded: Keilani in cheap hotels, Keilani with a string of different men, Keilani in staged scenes meant to look like intimacy. The images were factual, sourced, and shown without flourish.
"You can't—" Keilani whispered.
The first reaction was disbelief; then the crowd began to murmur. A woman near us hissed, "Is that who I think it is?"
"She looks like a professional dater," another voice said.
Eliot's jaw worked. He fought like a man defending his pride: "This is fake. My girlfriend is—"
"Enough," Levi said. "I did this because you two made my fiancée part of your game. I wanted everyone to see the truth."
Eliot's expression changed: from smugness to confusion to denial to panic. He began to speak quickly, each word more desperate than the last. "No, no, it's not like that. Keilani—Keilani, say something."
Keilani tried to laugh, to charm, to plead, but her voice cracked. Someone had already handed an assertive local a printout of a photo and asked, "Isn't that the same woman from the other beach party last month?"
"She was at my client's event last week," a man said, anger rising. "She was compensated to—"
The sound of other people's testimonies grew like tide. People in the gathering pulled out their phones to check dates, to cross-reference, to whisper and point. Children who had been building sandcastles looked on, eyes wide.
"You're making this up," Eliot said, but his voice was thin now. A few friends stepped back, exchanging looks. The person who had been closest to him took a step away.
Levi didn't shout. He told the story quietly, with facts, with dates and times. The hush around us was like a blanket. I tasted both shame and triumph. The shame was for my part in playing games; the triumph was that the people who had watched me be humiliated now turned to watch the real fraud be exposed.
Keilani's face shifted through stages: fury, denial, then the sick pallor of someone whose mask had slipped. "This is slander!" she cried.
"Is it?" shouted a voice. "Your own bank transfers? Your taxi receipts? The dates on your photos?"
She tried to laugh to save herself. People laughed back, cruel and shocked. A woman took a video and said, "Viral already. This is going online."
Eliot went white then red, like he couldn't regulate color. He shouted, "You're crazy! You set this up, Kaede. You set this up to make me look bad!"
"No," I said. "He did. Levi did it. Because you two treated me like a game."
"She lies," Eliot said, and then his tone reduced to whining.
The crowd reacted: some gasped, some pointed, some pulled out their phones and started filming. A couple of older women crossed their arms and said, "Told you he would end up the fool."
A man near me muttered, "Good. Let them see the truth."
Keilani tried to storm away, but the murmurs followed. One of the people in the crowd had once been burned by the same woman; she stepped forward and threw the first real accusation. "She dated my boss and sold photos. She is known for this."
"You're lying," Keilani shrieked, but each accusation landed. Her eyes darted for an ally. Eliot looked around and realized his friends were thinning out. He reached for me and I stepped aside.
"I don't want to speak to you," I said.
Eliot's bravado collapsed. He went through denial, then a frantic attempt to salvage something, then he looked at Levi like he had been betrayed by his god. "Dad—" he began.
Levi's face hardened. "You used people. You used Kaede. You and Keilani decided to stage that childish display tonight. I won't let you humiliate her."
Eliot's breaths came fast. He tried bargaining. "I'll—I'll fix it. I'll talk to her. I'll do anything."
"Do you want forgiveness or do you want to make amends?" Levi asked.
"Both!" Eliot begged.
"Then beg to those you hurt, publicly, and mean it." Levi's voice was flat.
Eliot swung between pride and panic. He got on his knees in front of the gathered group, a ridiculous, humbling posture. The tourists gasped. Someone filmed. Eliot's knees sank into wet sand.
"Kaede," he said. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I—" His voice broke.
The crowd's reaction was mixed. Some laughed. Some hissed. The woman who had been his friend spat, "Get up. Don't debase yourself to win a pity show."
"That's not how it works," someone else said.
Keilani watched him fall and tried to stand with him, to hold his hand. No one answered. Her boyfriend—former boyfriend—was on the sand pleading, and her carefully sculpted image lay in tatters.
Levi walked up, lifted Eliot by the back of the neck, and held him up as if he were showing a child to a teacher. "This is the consequence of your lies," he said. "You wanted to use people as props. Now people will see it."
Eliot's face crumpled into a version of regret that might have been real. "I'll do anything," he said. "Forgive me."
"I don't think this is about forgiveness," Levi said, and then he turned to the crowd and said, "I will not allow my fiancée—my partner—to be treated this way."
The crowd cheered. People clapped as if Levi had won a small, righteous battle. Cameras flashed. I felt a strange wash of relief: humiliation replaced with vindication. Eliot stumbled away, Keilani sobbing, her bravado evaporated. Their social circle thinned, friends whispering. People took sides. "That man," someone said, pointing at Eliot, "should learn to behave."
The sand under my feet felt steady. Levi came back to me and took my hand. "Are you okay?" he asked.
"I'm alright," I answered. "We did it."
He kissed my forehead. "You didn't do it alone."
Later, the footage of the beach incident spread. Eliot tried to compose himself in front of cameras, but his voice trembled. Keilani's social posts were flooded with comments exposing the same patterns Levi had shown. People who had previously cheered for her now posted receipts and timelines, and her sponsors backed away.
This punishment wasn't a private criminal trial. It was worse for them: it was public and irreversible. They lost respect, friends, and dignity in sight of the people who mattered. Eliot was forced to confront how small his bravado had been; Keilani watched the scaffolding of her image collapse.
I thought the story would end there, with the beach as the last stage. It didn't. It was only the beginning of something more complete.
Months later, Levi and I decided to marry. We kept it small, but we wanted a ceremony certain to include family. The garden of his grandfather's house became our stage. When the ceremony began, Eliot and Keilani were present—angry, ashamed, complicit.
We exchanged rings. People cheered. Then Levi asked for one more thing. He took the microphone, and the screen he set up showed a slideshow.
He wasn't cruel. He was precise. He showed facts that removed illusions and excuses. He displayed documents, messages, and dated proofs.
Keilani's face drained of color. Eliot stood next to her like a boy caught in the middle of a man.
"Call them out," I whispered.
Levi's voice carried over the garden: "We hoped they'd grow out of their habits. We were wrong. Tonight, I want truth at a wedding. If anyone thinks deceit is acceptable under my roof, they will know otherwise."
The crowd gasped as Levi's screen rolled. Keilani's agents tried to defend her. Eliot said nothing. Their punishment at the wedding was not a legal consequence. It was social exile made manifest: relatives recoiling, the matriarch's cold stare, friends defecting. Keilani knelt, then stood and fled. Eliot, humiliated in front of family who had once indulged him, had only the coldness of his peers to keep him company.
I felt a strange calm. The exes had been punished where it mattered most: in front of people whose opinions could alter their lives. People laughed, whispered, took pictures, and then turned away. The shame was public, the fall was visible, and the people who had once let them behave that way could now see who they'd been supporting.
Levi squeezed my hand at the edge of the applause. "You were brave," he said.
"And you were cruel in the right ways," I replied, smiling.
He kissed me in front of the crowd, and when we walked away through the garden people clapped. Eliot and Keilani's faces were still visible on the lawn, smaller somehow, removed from the light.
That night, Little Sweetie jumped into my lap and fell asleep. Levi watched me and said, softly, "Welcome home."
I glanced at him and then at the cat and then at the garden lights. "Home," I said, and I meant it.
The End
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