Chapter 4 - The Rival in the Rough"Who is this?" I asked, my voice dropping an octave as jealousy and fury flared hot and dangerous in my veins. I stepped between Noah and Claire, my corporate dominance instincts instantly taking over. "Claire, who the hell is this man?"
Noah didn't flinch. He set the heavy box down on a side table with a dull thud, straightened up, and looked me up and down with an expression that was one part amusement and three parts pity.
"Noah Vance," he said, extending a hand that was calloused and scarred from hard work. "Julian’s son. And you must be the phantom CEO who used to send floral arrangements on anniversaries instead of showing up."
I ignored his outstretched hand. The insult stung because it was entirely true, but coming from another man standing next to my wife—my former wife—it felt like an act of war.
"You've been here two months, Claire," I said, ignoring Noah completely and looking straight into her eyes. "And you're already tangled up with local fixtures? Is this what your new life is? A romanticized coastal restart with a local handyman?"
Claire’s eyes flashed with sudden, icy fury. She stepped up to me, her finger pointing directly at my chest. "Do not talk to him like that. And do not ever presume you have the right to judge my life, my friends, or my choices. You walked into my shop uninvited, screaming about your empire, and acting like you own the ground I'm standing on. You don't. That Moretti toxicity stops at the state line, Dominic."
"Claire, I'm just trying to understand," I said, my voice cracking slightly under the weight of her rejection. "Give me one night. Let me take you to dinner. Let me explain everything—"
"There's nothing to explain," Noah interrupted smoothly, stepping between us to create a buffer. "She’s not going to dinner with you, Mr. Moretti. She's a partner in this business, she has a life here, and she’s made it very clear she wants nothing to do with your world. I suggest you take your private jet, fly back to Manhattan, and go figure out whatever crisis your hedge funds are having today."
I clenched my fists so tightly my knuckles turned white. Every instinct in my body screamed at me to destroy him—to pull out my phone, call Marco, and ruin Noah Vance, his father’s law firm, and half the real estate in Ellsworth before dinner time. I had the power to do it. With three phone calls, I could make this entire town regret the day they welcomed my wife.
And then I looked at Claire.
She was watching me, her expression not angry anymore, but profoundly disappointed. She looked at me with the exact expression a schoolteacher gives a child who refuses to learn the lesson. She knew exactly what I was thinking. She knew that my first instinct when threatened was always to crush, to buy, to dominate.
"Go ahead, Dominic," Claire whispered softly, reading my mind with terrifying accuracy. "Call Marco. Destroy the town. Prove to me—and to everyone else—that the only thing you ever learned how to do was break things."
The words hung in the suffocating silence of the shop.
I looked at my phone in my hand. The screen was dark. The empire was waiting. But for the first time in my life, I realized that exercising my power wouldn't win her back—it would only prove her right.
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"I'm not calling anyone," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. I turned toward the door, my chest aching as if my ribs were broken. "I'll be at the Bar Harbor grand hotel. If you ever want to talk... about us... you know where to find me."
I walked out into the cold Maine rain, leaving them standing together in the warm light of Whitman & Tide.
