Page 127 of The Temporary Bride

“Your situation is different. Chloe’s not dead. She’s hurt and she’s angry and there’s a rift between you. But she’s alive, Tristan. You’re both alive. Which means it’s not over. There’s still a way back.” He holds my gaze. “Don’t waste that.”

The sound of light, shuffling footsteps comes from behind us, and Peyton appears on the deck. She looks between me and her father with wide, curious eyes, clearly trying to work out what she’s walked into. Her gaze settles on my face, and she frowns.

“Is Uncle Tristan okay?” she asks Gabriel, her voice quiet.

He reaches over to ruffle her hair as she comes closer. “Yeah. He’s just a little sad tonight, bug.”

She thinks about that for a second, her brow furrowed. Then she walks straight over to me and climbs up onto my lap, her small sneakers scuffing against the chair.

She puts her small hand flat against my cheek and looks at me very seriously. “Don’t be sad,” she says with that soft little lisp of hers.

I wrap my arms around her and hold on. She settles against my chest with her head tucked under my chin, innocent and uncomplicated, and I press my face into her hair and close my eyes.

“You can be happy,” she tells me with the simple conviction that only a kid can muster up. “It’s okay.”

Swallowing hard, I run my palm over her back and meet Gabriel’s eyes over her shoulder.

If only it were that simple.

But I don’t know how I’ll ever be happy without my wife. Without the love of my life.

Chapter 48

Chloe

The next couple of days pass in a haze of pain and recovery. I’m still in the hospital, and though the nurses assure me I’m healing well, I can’t shake the emotional fog. My body aches, but my heart feels even more battered, a dull throb that refuses to go away.

My family doesn’t come to visit again. I know they were here when I was unconscious, but now… nothing. It’s just as well. I don’t know what I’d say to them, how I’d react. The betrayal, the confusion, it’s all too fresh.

The nurses are kind, and the doctors are efficient, but it all feels distant and clinical. I go through the motions—answering questions about how I feel, taking the medication they bring, letting them check my vitals—but it’s like I’m on autopilot.

When I’m alone in the room, I have too much time to think. The memories of the accident are blurry, but the moments before and after, with Tristan… those are clear. The way he looked at me, the accusations in his eyes, and then the overwhelming guilt after I woke up, when he realized he was wrong.

He’s trying. I know that. But knowing that doesn’t make it easier.

I stare at the ceiling, the hospital’s fluorescent lights casting a harsh glow over everything. I close my eyes, trying to block it out, but it’s like trying to escape my own thoughts—impossible.

I drift in and out of sleep, the painkillers dulling the physical pain but doing nothing for the ache in my chest. Each day blends into the next, and I can’t help wondering what’s going to happen when I’m finally discharged. Where do I go from here? How do I pick up the pieces?

After a few days, I’m feeling a lot better. My body is still sore, but the constant pain has dulled to something I can live with. The doctor gives me the go-ahead to be discharged, and I feel a strange mix of relief and dread. Leaving the hospital means facing the real world again, dealing with everything that’s happened.

A nurse comes by to do her last checks, her demeanor cheerful. She’s been one of my regulars, a kind woman with a knack for making me smile despite everything. As she checks my vitals one last time, she jokes, “The staff manning the phones will be glad to see you go.”

I blink, confused. “What do you mean?”

She laughs lightly. “Your husband has been calling pretty much every hour on the hour, demanding updates on your status. He wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Something twists in my chest at her words. I picture Tristan, his face drawn and haggard, pacing as he waits for updates. We’re in this messy, painful place, but he’s still been there in his way, still cared enough to stay connected. It’s bittersweet, knowing he’s been so worried, but also a reminder of the distance between us, the rift that needs healing.

“He has?” I murmur.

“Yes,” the nurse replies, smiling. “He’s been very concerned about you.”

I manage a small smile in return, the sting of tears in my eyes. “Thank you for taking such good care of me.”

“It’s our job,” she says, patting my hand.

Ivy walks into the room, and I’m relieved to see her. She’s been a constant support over the past few days, checking in on me and offering to let me stay at her place. I couldn’t bear the thought of going back to Tristan’s house, not yet.