He’s taller than Joe.
Broader.
More everything.
He steps in front of me, blocking Joe’s view of my body.
“Well, Joe,” he says with a smile that holds zero warmth, “I’m Cohen. Sloane’s partner. And if she looks tired, trust me—it’s not from stress.”
He wiggles his eyebrows in that infuriating, perfect way and—
Oh my God. Cohen.
Sarah giggles. “Oooh, spicy! I love it!”
I’m shocked she even caught the implication.
Joe’s smile vanishes.
“Sure, Becker,” he says, rebuilding his arrogance piece by piece. “I’ve read the papers. Let’s see how long your… commitment lasts.”
He throws one last look at me over Cohen’s shoulder.
It’s meant to warn me.
But it just looks pathetic.
“Careful, Sloane. You know things never last for you.”
Then he drags Sarah—still giggling—back toward their table.
I stay frozen, hands wrapped around my now-cold coffee.
Things never last for you.
He used to say that when we fought.
I remember the last one.
When he justified cheating by making me feel small.
Boring.
Insufficient.
A warm hand covers mine.
Big. Rough. Steady.
Cohen.
I turn to him.
He’s still standing, every muscle locked tight, jaw ticking with restrained rage.
“That wasn’t a family friend,” he says quietly. “Not even close.”
“No,” I whisper. “It wasn’t.”
