Vanessa watches Ethan pace their hotel room like a caged animal.
Back and forth. Back and forth. Wearing a path in the expensive carpet.
“You need to calm down,” she says. Filing her nails. Pretending this isn’t eating her alive.
“Calm down? Did you see them?” He stops. Stares at her. “Did you see the way he looked at her?”
“It was a dance, Ethan. People dance at galas.”
“Not like that. Not, God, not like she was the only person in the room.” He runs both hands through his hair. “Something’s going on. I know it.”
Vanessa sets down her nail file. Studies him.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
She won. She got Ethan. Got the relationship. Got the i********: posts and the jealousy and the victory.
Except it doesn’t feel like victory anymore.
Because Ethan hasn’t stopped talking about
