The night after the gala, Dwayne stood by his office window long after the city lights blurred into a haze. The glass of whiskey in his hand had gone warm, untouched. He couldn't get the image out of his head: Sean's hand on Courtney's waist, the easy way she laughed as if she belonged in his arms, the shine in her eyes under the chandelier light.
It shouldn't have bothered him.
Sean was charming—he charmed everyone. And Courtney… well, she was free to dance with whomever she pleased. She wasn't his. She wasn't anything.
Dwayne tightened his grip on the glass, jaw clenching. That was the problem. She wasn't his, and she never would be. But watching Sean step so easily into her space, claim her attention as though it cost him nothing—it made Dwayne's blood boil.
