Page 113 of The Temporary Bride

I leaf through the pictures. There’s my father and a ten-year-old Reid on Halloween. We went dressed as Han Solo and Chewbacca that year, and we flipped a coin to decide who would be who. Reid called heads, and called it wrong. In the picture, he’s pouting beneath the hot, furry suit.

Then, beneath that, there’s a picture of all five of us on my father’s yacht, posing against the backdrop of the ocean. And under that, Beckett and his prom date. And then Gabriel, with Peyton balanced on his knee. Melanie stands behind him, one hand on his shoulder. This must have been about a year before she died.

“He treasured these,” my mother says softly, her voice thick. “He would have wanted you to have them.”

I nod, tracing the outlines of our younger selves in the photographs. Loss settles on my chest, mixed with a longing for the father I knew and the man he tried to be.

“He loved you deeply,” she continues, her words breaking the silence between us. “He made mistakes, but he always wanted the best for you.”

I look up at her, searching her eyes for answers I’m not sure I’ll find. “Why didn’t he tell us?” I ask, the pain of betrayal still fresh in my voice.

“To protect you, Tristan,” she says, although her voice wavers. “He didn’t want you to be sad. He didn’t want things to be difficult. And I think you know that.”

I clear my throat, then nod. Yeah, I did know that. It just never felt like a reasonable answer.

As I flip through the photographs, she speaks again.

“The plans he made,” she says quietly, “they weren’t just about the company or wealth. They were about your happiness too. He wanted to make sure you’d find love, that you’d be cared for.”

I pause, taking in her words. “So—Chloe⁠—”

“He might have been trying to make up for his failures,” she says, almost to herself. “As a father. As a husband. I don’t know.”

“Mom, what are you talking about?”

“Your father wanted his sons to be with people who loved them. He told me that much.”

My eyes widen as that sinks in. His sons, plural. Not just me. “Wait a minute. Not just me? What else did he plan?”

She hesitates, her gaze dropping before meeting mine again. “Julian made engagement plans,” she begins slowly, “for each of his sons.”

My fingers slip, and I almost drop the stack of photographs. “What?”

She purses her lips, nodding.

“When will these engagements happen? My brothers… they don’t know, do they?”

She hesitates briefly, her gaze thoughtful. “Things are being set in motion,” she replies. “It won’t be long now.”

“Mom, you need to tell them about this,” I insist. “As soon as possible. You should’ve already told them.”

“I know,” she admits. “I wanted to give you time to navigate your marriage, and for your brothers to see it. I hoped they would come around to the idea. And… I still hope they might. After all, you… you seem so happy.”

My throat feels tight. “I am happy. Happier than I thought I would be.”

“And I’m so glad, Tristan.” She smiles, reaching over to rest a hand on my knee. “It’s wonderful.”

I nod, unable to find the words to respond. I feel conflicted, to say the least. I have mixed feelings about arranged marriages. They’re incredibly common in our social circles, and I’ve always had a disdain for the concept and for the people who allow themselves to be drawn into situations like these.

I’ve known too many people who were unhappy in their marriages, or who carried regrets for their entire lives. But I can’t deny that Chloe makes me happy. I never expected it. She used to be my nemesis, and now I can’t imagine life without her.

“Thank you for the pictures,” I say slowly, rising to my feet. “I… I should get back to the office.”

“Of course,” my mother says. “Give Chloe my best.”

“I will. Thanks, Mom. And thanks for telling me about… about Dad.”

She inclines her head. “It was a long time coming.”