I had never been jealous. Not of other women, not of attention, not of history I hadn’t lived. Jealousy felt like a shortcut to a version of myself I didn’t recognize—smaller, sharper, ruled by fear instead of trust. And trust, whether deserved or not, was something I’d always chosen deliberately.
Besides, speculation felt indulgent.
And indulgence wasn’t an option when there was a stranger standing in front of me, saying my private life out loud like it was a data point.
“I’m not sure that’s your business,” I said, surprised at how steady my voice sounded.
The steadiness didn’t come from confidence.
It came from discipline.
From years of learning how to keep my face calm when something unexpected cut too close to the bone. From knowing that reacting too quickly—too emotionally—gave people information they hadn’t earned.
Her lips curved faintly. Not a smile. More like acknowledgment.
“I imagine he would say the same.”
The way she saidhe—with familiarity, with certainty—was deliberate. Meant to unsettle. Meant to test whether I’d flinch.
I didn’t.
Instead, I met her gaze and held it, even as my mind quietly filed the name away.
Dane.
Interesting.
Not urgent.
Not yet.
What mattered now wasn’t Micah’s last name, or Portia’s, or how they might intersect in ways I didn’t understand.
What mattered was the woman standing across from me—why she was here, how she knew what she knew, and what she wanted enough to step into my shop and cross a line she clearly knew existed.
And I had no intention of letting curiosity distract me from that.
My pulse started to race. “Who are you?”
“Someone who likes to keep track of things,” she replied. “People. Patterns.”
“Then you’ll understand,” I said coolly, “that you’re crossing a line.”
She studied me for a long moment. Then: “Be careful.”
With that single word, she turned and walked out, heels clicking with the certainty of someone who didn’t expect to be stopped.
I stood there long after she was gone, my heart hammering.
I didn’t chase her. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t call Micah.
Not yet.
Because the first thing that rose wasn’t fear.
It was anger.
Not at her—but at the sudden awareness that whatever Micah carried in his past didn’t stay neatly behind him. That being near him meant being seen. Noticed. Entered.
