It was a lie I tried (and failed) to comfort myself with.
“Dad, Mia and I’ve been together for eight years and married six. Can we let it go?” I try again. Thinking about the prenup makes me sick inside, reminds me of my cowardice.
He looks out the window. “Diana’s a better fit. She understands our world. Mia’s alright, but she’s….” He searches for the word, doesn’t find it, but the dismissal is loud enough.
I stand up, rest the palms of my hands on my desk, and lean forward. “Mia is my wife. End of story.”
Dad smirks. “For now.”
I shake my head. “This discussion is over.”
How many times have I said this?Too many.And despite all this, I have had the gall to tell Mia she’simagining my parents’ disapproval. Self-loathing comes in waves, and this one is debilitating.
Dad stands, unbothered by my mood. “Aiden, you’re not twenty-five anymore. Legacy matters. Heirs matter.”
With that parting shot, he strolls out.
I’m left standing in the middle of my office, this empire I’ve built around me, realizing that the one thing I didn’t protect—the only thing that actuallymattered—is slipping through my fingers.
The thoughts racing through my mind are contradictory and scary.
I kissed another woman.
Mia can’t find out.
A good marriage needs honesty.
I grab my phone. I have this itch to call her, hear her voice. But she’s in class and she won’t pick up. She will text back asking if it’s anything urgent.
My shoulders slump.
How many times does she text, and I don’t respond?
Way too many times.
She’s a kindergarten teacher, while I’m an executive. My job is more important.End of discussion.
Fuck, I’m an asshole.
I stare at her contact card on my phone. See her beautiful face, smiling at me.
Even if she picks up the phone, I realize, I have no idea what the fuck I’d say to her.
WhatcanI say? That my father thinks she’s disposable? That the woman who kissed me feels entitled to mylife? That I’ve spent the last two years failing her, and only just now understand the damage?
Or should I just go on my knees and beg, “Please don’t leave me. I promise to do better.”
But evenIwouldn’t believe me, not with my track record.
CHAPTER 5
Mia
Bliss. What an ironic name for this place.
The Winter estate in Stowe is draped in picture-perfect snow, with pine trees lit like magazine spreads, and fireplaces crackling in every room.
It reeks of old money and the stodgy assholes who live there.
