Page 132 of The Wright Man

"Later."

The call ended, and I just sat there, staring at the blank screen in my hand, heart heavier than it should've been.

I knew he'd be upset. I braced for that.

What I didn't expect was the guilt. This hot, sick feeling low in my belly.

Like I was cheating on my best friend with my boyfriend.

Well. Fiancé now.

Gavin and I had been together for six years. Maleek had been gone for four.

And still... I'd never loved anyone the way I loved Maleek. Not romantically. Just... in a way that made everything else feel shallow by comparison.

I shook the thought away.

I was graduating. I was getting married. I was building a future.

This was a beginning.

But in the pit of my stomach, I knew— It was also the beginning of the end.

For me and Maleek.

* * *

Angelica

Now

Four years. From feeling like I was cheating on my best friend with my boyfriend to feeling like I was cheating on my husband with my best friend.

Life was fucking insane.

I pasted on a smile that barely stuck and knocked on Gavin's office door, already bracing myself.

"Come in," he called distractedly from the other side.

I stepped in and found him glued to his phone—not emails, not client calls, not some high-stakes jewelry bid. A goddamn mobile game. His thumbs were flying like he was twelve years old in a dentist's waiting room. Meanwhile, I'd worked myself ragged all morning, styled four heads, and managed two reschedules. The fact that this man got paid six figures to play Candy Crush while I poured my soul into a business I built from scratch would never not make me want to scream.

Still, I smiled. Or something like it.

"Hey, baby," I said, walking over to him. I kissed his cheek, barely catching his skin before he tilted away from me to finish whatever level he was on. "Brought you lunch. Figured we could eat together before my afternoon appointments."

His eyes flicked to the bags in my hands. "Chick-fil-A?" he said, like I'd handed him a wet sock.

I fought the urge to upend his damn lemonade in his lap. Instead, I reached for levity.

"Well, I paid—and I was craving Chick-fil-A. When you pay, you can pick."

He rolled his eyes and dropped his phone onto the desk. "Thanks," he mumbled like he was doing me the favor.

I sat across from him, unpacking our food with a tight smile, and asked him about his day. Tossed out a joke about gaudy-ass D.C. officials buying jewelry for their mistresses, just to get him talking.

And, of course, that was all the opening he needed. He launched into a story about a district attorney shelling out fifteen grand on a "sorry I got caught" necklace. I nodded along, letting him run his mouth. Somewhere between bites of my sandwich and sips of sweet tea, I thought to mention Boyd and Jasmine.

"They seemed... cozy," I said, giving him the patented Reed Sister you-didn't-hear-it-from-me look.