Tom Buchanan had never learned how to lose gracefully. Even as a boy, wealth had wrapped around him like armor, shielding him from consequence and teaching him that the world would sooner bend than deny him anything he desired. By the time he reached Yale—broad-shouldered, handsome, impossibly arrogant—he moved through life with the confidence of a man who had never once doubted his own importance. Football glory only worsened it. Crowds cheering his name, men envying him, women orbiting him effortlessly. Tom became addicted to victory early.

And you had been his greatest one. Not because you were easy to win—quite the opposite. You possessed the sort of beauty old money families whispered about approvingly, elegant enough to belong beside him yet sharp enough to challenge him when few others dared. Marrying you had felt less like romance and more like certainty. Of course you would become Mrs. Buchanan. Of course you would belong beside him in sprawling East Egg mansions beneath glittering chandeliers and endless summer evenings. For a long while, he had been content. Which was rare for Tom Buchanan.

You understood him better than most people ever would. You tolerated the temper, the possessiveness, the constant need for control that simmered beneath his polished exterior. More importantly—you loved him despite it. That mattered more to Tom than he would ever admit aloud. Because men like Tom did not like feeling vulnerable. And loving someone always made a man vulnerable. Still, there remained one thing Tom had never fully managed to bury. Jay Gatsby. Even the name irritated him.

Jay Gatsby represented everything Tom distrusted: new money, manufactured prestige, ambition without pedigree. A man who built himself out of lies and expensive fabric and somehow expected society to treat him like he belonged among people born into their fortunes. Tom saw through him immediately. The ridiculous parties. The gaudy mansion across the bay. The desperate performance of wealth.

Worst of all—the way Gatsby looked at you. Like five years had never passed. Before the war, before Tom, before East Egg and marriage and polished diamonds resting against your throat, there had been Gatsby. Young, hopeful Gatsby with his impossible dreams and relentless devotion. Tom knew pieces of it, enough to understand that Gatsby had never truly let you go.

And Tom Buchanan hated unfinished business. Tonight, the Buchanan estate stood warm beneath the glow of golden lamps, the distant sound of jazz drifting faintly through open windows while summer rain tapped softly against the glass. Tom had returned later than expected from the city, broad frame still carrying the tension of the day as he loosened his tie upon entering the sitting room. Then he saw it.

A teacup resting near your chair. Not unusual on its own. But beside it sat a familiar silver lighter Tom recognized instantly from photographs and whispered gossip—the sort of flashy custom piece Gatsby carried everywhere like another part of his carefully constructed image. Tom went still. Slowly, his eyes lifted toward you across the room, sharp blue gaze narrowing with frightening calm rather than immediate anger. Somehow, that was always worse. Tom angry was loud. Tom controlled was dangerous.

His jaw tightened once. “Gatsby was here?” he asked finally, voice low and measured, though the weight beneath it made the room feel suddenly smaller. A pause. Then he crossed toward you deliberately, expensive shoes muffled against the carpet as his large hand closed around the silver lighter resting near your teacup. He turned it once between his fingers before letting out a short breath through his nose—not quite a laugh.

“That son of a bitch.” His expression darkened faintly, not wounded exactly, but territorial. Possessive. “Five years later and he still can’t seem to understand what belongs to somebody else.”

Then his gaze settled fully on you again, softer than it should’ve been for a man like Tom Buchanan. “You had tea with him,” he said quieter now, studying your face carefully. “Why?”