Chapter 2 - The Confrontation Beneath the Palms
Landon stared through the ambient haze of the terrace, his throat working convulsively as he tried to swallow.
I didn't duck my head, nor did I hide behind the decorative palms.
I picked up my glass of sparkling water, raised it toward him in a silent, icy toast, and took a measured sip.
Sloane looked at Landon's stricken expression, her smile collapsing into sudden confusion.
"Landon? What's wrong? What does the card say?"
Landon didn't answer her.
He shoved his chair back so violently that the metal legs screeched against the flagstone, turning heads at three neighboring tables.
He dropped the card onto the white tablecloth and began walking toward our table near the fountain.
His stride was fast, frantic, and completely stripped of his usual corporate arrogance.
"Harper?" he choked out as he reached the edge of our patio alcove. "What are you doing here?"
Brit stood up immediately, stepping half an inch forward to create an impenetrable barrier between us.
"Step back, Landon," Brit warned, her voice laced with venomous disgust. "You don't get to crowd her."
"Harper, please, this isn't what it looks like," Landon pleaded, ignoring Brit completely as he reached toward my hands.
I stood up slowly, smoothing the wrinkles from my navy-blue dress—the dress he had once whispered was his favorite.
"Save it, Landon," I said, my voice echoing with an absolute, terrifying calmness.
"You told me you were in Phoenix attending keynote seminars and networking with regional directors."
"I am! Well, we came down here for a client dinner—it was last-minute, Harper, I swear!"
"A client dinner with champagne service and a private plunge pool in Casita Seven?" I asked, tilting my head.
His mouth snapped shut, trapped by the specific details he never dreamed I would uncover.
By now, Sloane had made her way over from their table, clutching her designer clutch against her chest like a shield.
"Landon, who is this?" Sloane asked, her gaze darting between my friends and me with rising panic.
I turned to look at the woman my husband had spent eight months whispering about behind closed office doors.
She wasn't a ruthless villain; she was just twenty-eight, ambitious, and utterly foolish for believing a married man's promises.
"I'm Harper," I said clearly, looking her dead in the eye. "Landon’s wife of twelve years."
Sloane took an involuntary step backward, the blood leaving her face.
"Wife?" she whispered, turning to Landon with sheer disbelief. "You told me you were legally separated. You told me the divorce was finalizing next month!"
Landon closed his eyes, his shoulders sagging as the web of lies collapsed violently around his head.
"You told her what, Landon?" I asked, a bitter laugh finally breaking through my lips.
May you like
"You told her the same story you told yourself whenever you kissed me goodbye at the front door."
The patio was dead silent now; every diner and server was watching the slow-motion execution of Landon Hayes's double life.
