The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the faint, distant sound of the pool filters. I didn't flinch. Instead, I let my eyes trail over him—the expensive tailoring, the $50,000 watch, and the nervous twitch in his jaw.
Up close, Lana's husband looked less like a lion and more like a high-end accountant. He had that "successful nerd" energy—the kind of guy who spent his life winning at math but losing at life. He reminded me of a tech-billionaire version of Peter Parker: all the resources in the world, but still couldn't get laid by Mary Jane.
Money was his only superpower. And while money can buy a palace, it can't buy the kind of raw, pheromonal dominance I'd just used to break his wife.
"I asked you a question, didn't I?" Michael snapped, his voice pitching a fraction higher, his face turning a blotchy, frustrated red. "Who the fuck are you?"
