Page 6 of The Temporary Bride

As if he can sense the turmoil in my head, he softens a bit, reaching out a hand to grab my forearm.

“Trust me, son. Trust my vision for this company.”

And just like that, we’re not changing anything, I think to myself. But rather than argue, I nod.

There’s no coming back from being brushed off so quickly. I would know. We go through this dance every other week.

If he’s just going to disregard all of my suggestions, I’m not sure why he’s even keeping me around. I direct my gaze down at the intricately embroidered rug on the floor so that my father won’t see the disappointment in my eyes. Just keeping me shut away until the day he steps down? God knows when that’ll be.

“Okay.” My father rises to his feet, effectively ending our conversation. “I should probably get going if I want to be in Malibu on time.”

“Shall I call a driver?”

“No, no. It’s a nice day. I’ll take the McLaren.” My father is a collector of sports cars. At every opportunity, he can be found behind the wheel of one of his imports.

“Can we discuss these numbers again later? I might have a few other ideas about how to address this,” I say. He gives me a weary look, and I amend, “More patient ideas. Less drastic.”

“Sure, Tristan. I’ll talk to you later.”

With that, he leaves, and I’m alone in his spacious office. Sunlight from the expansive windows falls across his desk, drawing my eye.

My father, when he sits behind that desk, is every bit as imposing as the company he runs. I take an involuntary step toward it and let myself imagine sitting there, finally in a position to make the changes I’ve been pushing for instead of running every one of them past a man who’s spent forty years convinced he’s the only one who’s right.

The tactics he used to get the company here aren’t the same ones that will keep it here. I don’t know how to make him see that. And I don’t know how much longer Thorne Enterprises can hold up under his old playbook.

I head back to my office and spend the rest of the day there, poring over the data. Hoping against hope that somehow, in my capacity as the head of strategic development, I can find a solution to this problem before it grows beyond my control.

I lose myself in the work, searching for an answer that my father will accept. By five o’clock, I’ve jotted down a list of no fewer than eight potential plans—though I’m certain he’ll find something wrong with each of them.

The shadows are growing long in my office by the time I close my laptop. I glance at my phone, then blink at the screen.

I have over fifteen missed calls.

None of them are from clients or colleagues. They’re all from my family. From my mother. From each of my brothers. Reid called me three times.

Something is wrong.

My chest tightens as I call my mother back. The call connects, and I hear her voice on the other end.

“Tristan,” she whispers. I’ve never heard her sound like this before. Weary. Shaky. Unnerved.

“Mom. Is everything okay?”

There’s a pause, then she makes a sound like a gasping sob. “No. No, Tristan. Your father… there’s been an accident.”

My grip tightens on the phone. “What?”

“The… the car… he…”

“Mom. What’s going on?”

“He’s dead, Tristan,” my mother chokes out. “Your father is dead.”

I stare into the reflection in my bathroom mirror, my razor in my hand.

I’m too numb to begin shaving off the stubble that has shadowed my jaw for days now. Over the past week, between the chaos of planning the funeral and my own grief, I haven’t been paying enough attention to my personal routine.

That means that things like shaving have gone by the wayside. It also means that my work has taken a hit, and that there’s a mountain of unread emails sitting in my inbox.