“You find a way,” he said quietly, “to fix your fuck-ups and make sure she’s the one you marry.”
The words lodged in my chest.
“She won’t even speak to me,” I said.
“Today,” he agreed. “Grief is loud. Anger is louder. Both are temporary. You don’t have to fix this in a day.”
“The clause?—”
“Gives you a deadline,” he said. “It doesn’t tell you how to use the time in between. You want my opinion?”
“I usually regret it,” I said.
“Too bad,” he replied. “You’ve got five and a half days to become the kind of man she could ever even consider forgiving. Whether she takes that step toward you or not is up to her. But right now, you’re not even giving the universe a fighting chance.”
I stared at him.
“Sleep,” he said again. “Tomorrow, we’ll talk strategy. Today is for not self-destructing.”
He moved toward the door, then paused with his hand on the frame.
“One more thing,” he added.
“Of course,” I said. “Why not.”
“Vivian’s attorney called,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder. “She’s confirmed her arrival in the States for the twenty-fourth. An early flight in.”
My pulse kicked.
“To collect what she feels she’s owed,” I said, voice flat.
“To try,” he corrected. “Whether she succeeds or not is still in play.”
The room seemed smaller suddenly. The air thinner. Six days had just shrunk into something that felt like a breath and a heartbeat and nothing more.
Henry’s gaze pinned me.
“Get your head on straight,” he said. “Because when she shows up, you’re going to want more than whiskey and self-pity in your arsenal.”
Then he flipped off the main light, leaving only the small lamp by the bed, and stepped out into the hall, door snicking softly shut behind him.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of the deadline press down on my chest like a familiar ghost.
Five and a half days until Christmas Eve. Five and a half days until Vivian came for everything. Five and a half days to either become someone Chrissy could forgive, or lose her, and my father’s legacy, and the future I’d built in my head, in one catastrophic, final blow.
For the first time since she walked out, the thought of doing nothing terrified me more than the thought of trying and failing.
Because trying meant facing her, and failing meant living the rest of my life knowing I’d had one chance at something real… and fucked it up beyond repair. I closed my eyes and saw her face anyway.
“Chrissy,” I whispered into the empty room.
The silence that answered felt like a promise and a threat all at once. And somewhere underneath the ache, under the fear and shame and grief, a single, dangerous thought took root.
If I only had one woman I was willing to marry… then I’d damn well have to find a way to be worth marrying.
Chapter
Thirty-One
