The wine had been flowing for hours. Expensive s**t—rich, heady—but not strong enough to drown out what was really happening. Not when the looks were louder than the laughs. Not when Claire’s leg had been draped across Devon’s lap for half an hour now, bare thigh pressed against his jeans, her fingers tracing slow, lazy circles on his arm like her husband wasn’t right f*****g there.
And he didn’t even blink.
I sat on the other side, Emily pressed against me like always. My wife. But her foot? That had wandered right across the couch pressed bold and firm against Devon’s thigh like she was testing how far she could stretch before someone stopped her.
No one stopped her.
Devon kept one hand on Claire’s knee, but his eyes were already on Emily.
And me?
I sat there with my jaw clenched,
