Chapter 2 - The Anatomy of a Jealous Glare
“Daniel?” Rachel prompted, her voice dropping into that smooth, slightly nasal tone she used whenever she wanted him entirely focused on her.
He didn't answer her. He couldn't. His brain appeared to have short-circuited entirely at the sight of his estranged wife looking radiantly happy, sharing an intimate booth with another man.
Michael shifted slightly, his eyes tracking the couple as they hesitated near the concierge desk. “Friend of yours, Claire?” he murmured, his voice pitched low.
“My husband,” I replied evenly, swirling the ice in my glass.
Michael blinked, his eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline. “That’s Daniel?”
“Apparently.”
“With—”
“Yes.”
Michael let out a slow, appreciative whistle. “I see.”
Across the lobby, Rachel had locked eyes with me. Her expression morphed from confusion to sharp, feline scrutiny as she assessed my appearance, my relaxed posture, and then shifted her gaze to Michael. She leaned in toward Daniel, her voice cutting through the ambient hum of the lounge. “Who is that?” she demanded, her tone suddenly razor-sharp.
“No idea,” Daniel snapped back instantly. Too fast. Too defensive.
I almost laughed out loud. The panic in his voice was so palpable it practically vibrated across the room. Rachel squeezed his hand again, a silent demand for reassurance, but Daniel barely registered the gesture. His eyes remained locked on us, burning with a volatile mix of territorial fury and sheer, unadulterated disbelief.
“Do you know him?” Rachel pressed, her steps faltering as she tried to pull him toward the elevators.
“I was just asking,” Daniel muttered defensively.
“No, you weren’t.” Rachel stopped walking altogether, her eyes narrowing as she looked between Daniel’s stricken face and the comfortable tableau Michael and I were presenting.
Before the argument could escalate, a family wheeling a massive stack of luggage rolled directly through the line of sight between our booth and the elevators, temporarily breaking the tension.
Michael leaned across the small cocktail table toward me, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Should I wave?” he whispered.
“Absolutely not.”
“Should I kiss your cheek for dramatic effect?”
“Michael, stop it.”
“I’m just trying to be a supportive family member.”
“You’re thoroughly enjoying this.”
“That can also be supportive.”
I let out another bright, genuine laugh, tossing my head back slightly.
Daniel saw it. Through the gap in the departing luggage cart, his eyes caught the movement, and his jaw clenched so hard I thought his back molars might crack. Rachel saw his reaction, too, and the momentary look of triumph she had worn upon entering the lobby curdled into something bitter and deeply insecure.
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Neither of them knew the simple, devastating truth. The man sitting beside me wasn't a secret lover, a rebound date, or a new boyfriend. He was Michael Lawson—my first cousin on my mother's side. Daniel had met him precisely once, sixteen years earlier, at a chaotic family reunion in Ohio where everyone had been sunburned, exhausted, and shouting over lawn games. In the intervening years, Michael had grown a thick beard, traded his contacts for tortoise-shell glasses, and put on thirty pounds of solid muscle. To Daniel, he was just an anonymous, impossibly handsome rival who had effortlessly stolen his estranged wife’s attention.
And I hadn't said a single word to correct the assumption.
