Waking Up to His Rival

Summary

The private dining room at the Riverstone Grill smelled of charred cedar and vintage cabernet, but the air felt thin, like all the oxygen had been siphoned out before I walked through the door.

I looked around the mahogany table. Our mutual friends—people who had attended our dinner parties, who had toasted to our bright future—suddenly found their water goblets fascinating. Even my mother refused to meet my eyes, her fingers nervously shredding a linen napkin into pale, ragged ribbons.