Chapter 2 - The Mistress at the Table
Michael noticed her approach first, his eyebrows twitching with mild amusement as he set his glass down.
"Incoming," he murmured under his breath. "Looks like the trophy wants to inspect the competition."
Rachel stopped two feet from our table, planting one hand on her hip while clutching a small designer clutch with the other. Up close, beneath the heavy foundation and artistic eyeliner, her face was pinched with tightly wound insecurity.
"Claire," Rachel began, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness that sounded like syrup poured over broken glass. "I saw you from across the room. I thought it would be mature of us to say hello."
I took a slow, deliberate sip of my pinot noir, letting the silence stretch between us until her painted smile began to waver at the corners.
"Mature, Rachel?" I said calmly, looking her up and down. "Is that what we're calling a weekend getaway funded by my husband's marital joint accounts?"
Rachel’s cheeks flushed a sudden, mottled pink beneath her makeup, but she forced a dismissive laugh.
"Daniel told me you were having a hard time letting go," Rachel countered, shifting her gaze deliberately to Michael. "Though it seems you've found... temporary distractions."
Michael sat entirely still, his expression unreadable, resting his chin in his hand as if he were watching an amateur theater audition.
"I’m Rachel Morgan," she introduced herself directly to Michael, extending a hand with freshly manicured red nails. "A close partner of Daniel’s."
Michael looked at her outstretched hand, then slowly looked up into her eyes, keeping both of his hands firmly resting on the arms of his leather chair. He didn't move a single muscle to reciprocate.
"I know who you are, Miss Morgan," Michael replied, his voice smooth, deep, and chillingly devoid of warmth. "The woman who couldn't wait until the ink on a twenty-four-year marriage was dry."
Rachel’s hand dropped back to her side as if she had touched hot iron. Her breath hitched in her throat, her eyes widening in genuine shock at his blunt hostility.
"Excuse me?" she gasped, looking back at me for support she was never going to find. "Claire, your friend is extraordinarily rude."
"My friend is observant," I answered, leaning back comfortably. "And unlike my husband, he isn't easily manipulated by cheap theatrics."
Rachel swallowed hard, her jaw tightening as she tried to regain her footing.
"Daniel is upstairs waiting for room service," she announced, attempting to sound triumphant. "He asked me to come down and see if you were okay. He worries about your emotional stability, Claire."
"Did he send you down here to check on me, Rachel?" I asked softly, a razor-sharp smile touching my lips. "Or did he lock himself in the bathroom to text me four times while you wondered why he suddenly let go of your hand?"
May you like
Rachel’s eyes flickered with unmistakable panic, confirming every single detail of what had just transpired on the fourteenth floor.
"Enjoy your weekend, Rachel," I added, turning my attention back to Michael. "The seafood chowder is mediocre, but the suites have excellent soundproofing. You might need it when he starts calling my phone again."
