The Other Woman in His Shadows - Chapter 1: Chapter 1
You are reading The Other Woman in His Shadows, Chapter 1: Chapter 1. Read more chapters of The Other Woman in His Shadows.
For seven years, I'd been secretly involved with my brother's best friend, Jason Ramirez.
One night, after a few drinks, he shot me that familiar playful smirk and said, "Zoey, I'll find you a better man. Stop clinging to me, okay?"
I simply nodded. "Alright."
I knew better this time. In my past life, I'd fought him on it—insisted on marrying him. And what did it get me? A husband who treated me like a ghost. Even when I was eight months pregnant, bleeding out after a car accident, he was off at a concert with his heartbroken secretary, Shairine, watching her favorite band.
That's when it hit me: he was someone else's happy ending. Never mine.
The moment I agreed, Jason stiffened. The dim lounge light played across his face, highlighting the flush on his cheeks, but his eyes were sharp—sober as ever.
I sat perfectly composed, legs crossed, a polite smile on my lips.
His lazy slouch vanished. He straightened, voice tight. "Zoey, did you hear what I just said?"
"Loud and clear."
In the past, I would've pouted, teased, begged him to take it back. But now? Nothing. Just stillness, like watching a scene play out from behind glass.
"Zoey, you—"
Before he could finish, my brother Yves strolled back in, grinning. "Guess who I just saw outside?" He didn't wait. "Your ex. Drunk off her ass, getting hauled into another lounge—"
Jason was out of his seat before Yves finished, storming into the hallway. Seconds later, glass shattered, voices shouted.
I stayed put, plucking another slice of tangerine from the plate.
Jason loved fruit but hated peeling it. So for years, I'd done it for him—peeled, segmented, placed it just so. Only then would he take a bite.
Yves used to tease me. "You treat him better than your own brother. Got a crush or something?"
I'd almost confessed a dozen times. But Jason would always cut in, ruffling my hair like a kid. "Maybe I'm just the brother she actually likes. Got a problem with that?"
I got the message. He didn't want anyone to know.
So for seven years, no one did.
Now, Yves hovered by the door, watching the chaos. "Aren't you going to help him?"
I swallowed the last slice. "My arms are noodles, my legs are twigs. I'd just be in the way."
Yves gave me a look but headed out anyway.
I waited until the noise died down before leaving.
And there he was—Jason, cradling Shairine like she was made of glass. She slumped against him, drunk and boneless.
He held her tight. Like he never wanted to let go.
One night, after a few drinks, he shot me that familiar playful smirk and said, "Zoey, I'll find you a better man. Stop clinging to me, okay?"
I simply nodded. "Alright."
I knew better this time. In my past life, I'd fought him on it—insisted on marrying him. And what did it get me? A husband who treated me like a ghost. Even when I was eight months pregnant, bleeding out after a car accident, he was off at a concert with his heartbroken secretary, Shairine, watching her favorite band.
That's when it hit me: he was someone else's happy ending. Never mine.
The moment I agreed, Jason stiffened. The dim lounge light played across his face, highlighting the flush on his cheeks, but his eyes were sharp—sober as ever.
I sat perfectly composed, legs crossed, a polite smile on my lips.
His lazy slouch vanished. He straightened, voice tight. "Zoey, did you hear what I just said?"
"Loud and clear."
In the past, I would've pouted, teased, begged him to take it back. But now? Nothing. Just stillness, like watching a scene play out from behind glass.
"Zoey, you—"
Before he could finish, my brother Yves strolled back in, grinning. "Guess who I just saw outside?" He didn't wait. "Your ex. Drunk off her ass, getting hauled into another lounge—"
Jason was out of his seat before Yves finished, storming into the hallway. Seconds later, glass shattered, voices shouted.
I stayed put, plucking another slice of tangerine from the plate.
Jason loved fruit but hated peeling it. So for years, I'd done it for him—peeled, segmented, placed it just so. Only then would he take a bite.
Yves used to tease me. "You treat him better than your own brother. Got a crush or something?"
I'd almost confessed a dozen times. But Jason would always cut in, ruffling my hair like a kid. "Maybe I'm just the brother she actually likes. Got a problem with that?"
I got the message. He didn't want anyone to know.
So for seven years, no one did.
Now, Yves hovered by the door, watching the chaos. "Aren't you going to help him?"
I swallowed the last slice. "My arms are noodles, my legs are twigs. I'd just be in the way."
Yves gave me a look but headed out anyway.
I waited until the noise died down before leaving.
And there he was—Jason, cradling Shairine like she was made of glass. She slumped against him, drunk and boneless.
He held her tight. Like he never wanted to let go.
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