We found the waiter.
That was the text. Short. Sweet. Suspiciously convenient.
I was already halfway to the door, purse in hand, hoodie halfway on, ready to interrogate this man like an unhinged FBI dropout when…
“Where are you going?” Damian’s voice slid in like a cold slap.
I paused mid-step, my fake Gucci boot hovering in dramatic defiance. “Out.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Out where?”
“None of your business.” I smiled like a cat with blood on its whiskers. “Last I checked, we were about three gasps away from divorce.”
His jaw ticked. “Was that a message you got just now?”
I arched a brow. “And if it was?”
He folded his arms. “Are you seeing someone?”
I snorted. Loud. “What is it to you? Feeling territorial, husband?”
He didn’t answer. Just stared like I was a locked vault he’d f
