My Neighbour Is My Cousin Brother

A Amazing Turning

Chapter Eleven: The Ghost at the Table

The return to the city was not the triumphant homecoming their parents had envisioned. There were no cameras at the private airfield, only a fleet of black sedans waiting to whisk the "happy couple" back to their gilded cage. The air in the city was humid and heavy, a sharp contrast to the salt-scrubbed breeze of the island.

The moment they stepped into the foyer of the mansion, the atmosphere shifted. The honeymoon was officially over, and the pretense of the "drunken night" on the island had been buried under a mountain of suitcases and cold stares.

"I have a meeting," Leo said, his voice clipped as he handed his coat to the butler. He didn't look at Mark. He didn't even check to see if Mark had heard him. He was already checking his watch, his movements frantic and fueled by an obsessive energy.

Mark stood in the center of the hall, watching his husband’s retreating back. He knew exactly what "meeting" Leo was heading to. The letter from Lily had been the only thing Leo had focused on for the final forty-eight hours of their trip.

"Of course," Mark said softly, a sharp, dangerous smile playing on his lips. "Don't let me keep you from your... business."

The moment Leo’s car screeched out of the driveway, Mark turned to the house staff. "Prepare the sapphire suit. And book a table for one at L’Etoile. The center table. The one in full view of the private booths."

L’Etoile was the kind of restaurant where reputations were made or broken over appetizers. It was a place of white linen, dim amber lighting, and hushed conversations. It was also the exact location Lily had mentioned in her follow-up text to Leo—a place they used to frequent when they were teenagers.

Mark arrived thirty minutes after Leo. He didn't sneak in. He walked through the front doors like he owned the establishment. He had traded his soft student sweaters for a structured, midnight-blue silk suit that made him look older, sharper, and intimidatingly wealthy. His hair was slicked back, revealing the bone structure of a man who was no longer hiding.

The maître d’ bowed deeply. "Mr. Mark. A pleasure to have you back. Your table is ready."

As Mark was led to the center of the room, he saw them.

Leo and Lily were tucked into a semi-private booth in the corner. From this distance, they looked like a portrait of tragic romance. Leo was leaning forward, his hand hovering near Lily’s on the table. Lily was looking at him with wide, tearful eyes, her chestnut hair falling over her shoulders in perfect waves. They were in their own world, a bubble of "true love" that was supposed to exclude everyone else.

Mark sat down at his table, which was less than twenty feet away. He didn't look toward the booth. He didn't flinch. He picked up the leather-bound menu and began to study it with the intensity of a scholar.

"I’ll start with the Oysters Rockefeller," Mark told the waiter, his voice clear and resonant. "And a bottle of the '82 Margaux. I’m celebrating."

The sound of Mark’s voice carried. In the quiet restaurant, it acted like a lightning strike.

Leo stiffened. He turned his head slowly, his eyes widening as he saw Mark sitting in the middle of the room, looking radiant and utterly unbothered. The sight of Mark—sober, elegant, and ignoring him—sent a jolt of something through Leo that he couldn't identify. It wasn't just anger; it was a sudden, jarring sense of displacement.

"Leo?" Lily whispered, noticing his distraction. "Is something wrong?"

Leo forced his gaze back to Lily, but the rhythm of their conversation was broken. "It’s nothing. Just... a coincidence."

But it wasn't a coincidence. Mark was putting on a clinic in indifference. When the oysters arrived, Mark ate them with a slow, sensory appreciation. He laughed softly at something the waiter said. He checked his phone, smiling at a message, looking like a man who had a thousand better places to be than in a room with his cheating husband.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.

Leo found himself unable to focus on Lily’s words. She was talking about her time in London, about how much she missed the city, about how "cruel" the world was for forcing them apart. Usually, this would have moved Leo to his core. But now, every time Lily spoke, Leo’s eyes drifted back to the center of the room.

He watched Mark swirl the red wine in his glass. He watched the way the light caught the sapphire cufflink on Mark’s wrist—a wedding gift from Leo’s own mother.

"Leo, you aren't listening to me," Lily said, her voice tinged with a hint of a pout.

"I am, Lily. I am," Leo said, but his tone was distracted. He felt a strange, burning irritation. Why wasn't Mark looking at him? Why wasn't Mark crying or making a scene? On the island, Mark had been a mess of emotions. Now, he was a stone wall.

Finally, Leo couldn't take the silence. He stood up, offering a brief apology to a stunned Lily, and walked over to Mark’s table.

"What are you doing here, Mark?" Leo hissed, leaning over the table, his hands gripping the back of the empty chair.

Mark didn't look up from his plate. He carefully cut a piece of sea bass, chewed it slowly, and took a sip of wine. Only then did he lift his gaze. His eyes were cold, clear, and entirely empty of the love that had been there only days before.

"Eating, Leo," Mark said calmly. "The sea bass is excellent. You should try it. Though I suppose you’re preoccupied with the... dessert."

Mark glanced briefly at Lily, who was watching from the booth, looking small and confused. He didn't glare at her. He didn't show spite. He looked at her the way one looks at a stranger on a bus—with total, clinical lack of interest.

"Go home," Leo commanded, his voice trembling with a strange, possessive fury. "This is private."

"This is a public restaurant, Husband," Mark replied, his voice loud enough for the neighboring tables to hear. "And since you told me the 'game was over,' I decided to start a new one. I’m a young, wealthy man with a prominent name. I shouldn't be wasting my Friday nights hiding in a mansion while you relive your high school years."

Mark turned back to his food, effectively dismissing Leo.

"Mark!" Leo growled.

"You’re hovering, Leo. It’s bad for the digestion," Mark said, finally looking him in the eye. "Lily looks lonely. You should go back to her before she realizes that the 'man of her dreams' is currently obsessed with a 'technicality' like me."

Leo felt a flush of heat climb his neck. He looked back at Lily, then back at Mark. He was caught in a pincer movement of his own making. If he stayed and argued with Mark, he was neglecting the woman he claimed to love. If he went back to Lily, he was letting Mark "win" the territory of the room.

He chose to return to the booth, but the magic was gone. Lily reached for his hand, but Leo’s fingers felt stiff. He was watching Mark settle the bill with a gold card—Leo’s gold card—and walk out of the restaurant without a single backward glance.

Mark didn't go home. He had the driver take him to the city’s most popular upscale lounge. He wanted to be seen. He wanted the rumors to start. He wanted the world to see that while Leo was stuck in the past with a ghost like Lily, Mark was the future.

Back at L’Etoile, the silence between Leo and Lily became unbearable.

"She seems... different," Lily said, trying to regain the intimacy. "Your cousin. He’s very... bold."

"He’s not my cousin," Leo snapped, the words coming out sharper than he intended. "He’s my husband."

Lily flinched as if she had been slapped. "Leo... you said it was just a lie for the parents."

"It is," Leo said, but the words felt hollow. He looked at the empty chair where Mark had been sitting. He realized with a sickening jolt that he didn't like the way the room felt without Mark’s presence. He didn't like the fact that Mark could look at him—and Lily—and feel absolutely nothing.

For years, Leo had chased the memory of Lily. She was his "one that got away." But as he sat in the restaurant he had dreamed of bringing her to, he realized that the person who was actually "getting away" was the man who had just walked out the door.

Leo stood up abruptly. "I have to go, Lily. The... the merger. There’s a crisis."

"But Leo, we just got our mains!"

"I’ll call you," Leo said, already heading for the door.

He burst out onto the sidewalk, looking for Mark’s car, but the street was empty. Mark was gone. For the first time in his life, Leo felt a pang of genuine, heart-stopping panic. He had spent months trying to push Mark away, and now that Mark was finally leaving—mentally and emotionally—Leo felt like he was drowning.

He got into his car and barked at the driver, "Find him. I don't care where he went. Find my husband."

As the car sped into the night, Leo clutched his phone, staring at the blank screen. He had gotten everything he wanted. Lily was back. The marriage was a sham. He was free.

So why did the freedom feel so much like a defeat?

Deep in the city, in a lounge filled with music and laughter, Mark sat with a glass of champagne, surrounded by people who wanted to know who the "new" Mark was. He didn't think about Leo. He didn't think about the letter. He only thought about the look on Leo’s face when he had realized he was being ignored.

It was a small victory, but it was the first time the "prisoner" felt like the king.