When Jealousy Speaks

Chapter 13: When Jealousy Speaks

Jealousy didn’t arrive loudly.

It slipped in quietly, disguising itself as irritation, as curiosity, as something I told myself didn’t matter.

I first noticed it the next afternoon.

Adrian was on the phone when I entered the living area, his voice low, his tone… different. Not colder. Softer. Controlled, but familiar in a way I hadn’t heard before.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ll see you then.”

He ended the call and turned toward me, expression instantly neutral.

“Who was that?” The question escaped before I could stop it.

His eyes sharpened just a fraction. “Business.”

I nodded, though my chest tightened. “Of course.”

I told myself it didn’t matter. We weren’t real. We were an arrangement built on signatures and appearances. I had no right to care who he spoke to or what tone he used.

And yet.

That evening, while getting ready for bed, I heard him laugh from down the hall.

Laugh.

The sound was rare—soft, unguarded. It stopped me in my tracks.

I didn’t realize I’d walked toward his study until I was standing outside it, the door slightly ajar. Inside, Adrian stood by the desk, phone in hand, his shoulders relaxed.

“Yes,” he said again, smiling faintly. “It’s been a long time.”

Something twisted sharply in my chest.

When he noticed me, the smile vanished instantly.

“I’ll call you later,” he said into the phone, then ended the call.

Silence settled between us.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I said quickly.

“You weren’t,” he replied. “What do you need?”

I shook my head. “Nothing. I was just… passing.”

His gaze lingered on me, thoughtful. “You look tired.”

“So do you.”

A pause.

“Amara,” he said carefully, “this arrangement—”

“I know,” I cut in. “You don’t owe me explanations.”

The words tasted bitter, but they were true.

He studied me, as if trying to read something I was failing to hide.

“Goodnight,” he said.

That night, sleep refused to come.

My mind replayed the sound of his laugh over and over, each time tightening something in my chest. I hated myself for caring. Hated the quiet jealousy whispering questions I didn’t want answered.

The next day only made it worse.

A woman arrived at the penthouse just before noon.

She was beautiful in a polished, effortless way—long dark hair, sharp eyes, confidence woven into every step. She wore a tailored suit and carried herself like she belonged.

“Is Adrian home?” she asked the staff.

“Yes, Ms. Laurent,” one of them replied. “Please come in.”

Ms. Laurent.

The name echoed unpleasantly.

Adrian greeted her in the hallway, his expression carefully neutral—but not cold. Never cold.

“Claire,” he said. “It’s been a while.”

Claire smiled. “Too long.”

I stayed where I was, frozen, invisible.

They moved into the study together, the door closing softly behind them.

I told myself not to imagine things. Not to assume. But every second they spent behind that door felt like a personal test I was failing.

When she finally left an hour later, I pretended to be absorbed in my phone.

“Amara,” Adrian said.

I looked up.

“This is Claire Laurent,” he said. “A former associate.”

Former.

She smiled at me, assessing. “So you’re the wife.”

“Yes,” I said evenly.

“I didn’t expect… warmth,” she added, glancing between us. “Adrian doesn’t usually allow people close.”

“I don’t,” he said.

The emphasis was unmistakable.

Claire’s gaze flicked to me, something unreadable flashing in her eyes. “Well,” she said lightly, “it was good to see you again, Adrian.”

After she left, the penthouse felt smaller.

“Are you going to tell me?” I asked quietly.

“Tell you what?”

“Who she really is.”

He hesitated.

“An old part of my life,” he said finally. “One I don’t revisit often.”

“And yet she’s here.”

“Yes.”

The simplicity of the answer hurt.

“I shouldn’t feel this way,” I admitted. “This jealousy. It’s irrational.”

His eyes darkened. “Jealousy implies ownership.”

“I know,” I said quickly. “That’s not what I mean.”

He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming.

“You’re allowed to feel,” he said. “Just don’t confuse feeling with entitlement.”

The words were sharp, but honest.

“I won’t,” I whispered.

But as he turned away, I knew the truth.

Jealousy had spoken.

And it had revealed something far more dangerous than I was ready to face.

I was no longer afraid of crossing the line.

I was afraid he might cross it first.