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Chapter Thirty-Seven
Date de publication:
2026-10-30 21:29:13
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DIVORCED, I RETURNED TO MY POWERFUL BROTHERS. Chapter Forty -two
Imogen“It’s just a workspace, Imogen. Don’t be dramatic.”That was Eugene’s idea of a casual announcement over Tuesday morning scrambled eggs.He slid a brass key ring across the breakfast island, the keys clattering next to my coffee mug. Attached to the ring was a sleek titanium tag with an address etched into the metal: 14 Mercer Street.I set my fork down, narrowing my eyes at him. “Eugene. Mercer Street is right in the middle of the historic arts district. The only things over there are multi-million-dollar lofts and fancy flagship stores.”“And your studio,” he replied, lifting his espresso without a single flicker of guilt. “Third and fourth floors. Private freight elevator, good northern light, strong floors, and proper ventilation.”“A loft,” I repeated, my eye twitching. “I told you yesterday I needed a corner with better daylight. A corner, Eugene.”“The air quality on Fifth was bad,” Klint said from the stove, stirring a pot of oats. “Those old ceiling fans were pushing d
DIVORCED, I RETURNED TO MY POWERFUL BROTHERS. Chapter Forty one
ImogenHis hand was warm.Not the clammy, tight grip Francis used to keep on my wrist whenever we walked into a charity gala, like he was holding a dog on a short leash. Adrian’s fingers just curled loosely around mine, his thumb brushing over my knuckles with a quiet, steady patience that made my knees feel like jelly.“Yeah,” I breathed, the word barely louder than the hum of the freight elevator down the hall. “You can.”Adrian didn’t pounce. He didn’t jerk me against his chest like some conquering hero claiming a prize.He just took one slow, deliberate step forward, closing that tiny gap between our boots. His free hand came up, hovering for a split second before his fingers settled against the side of my jaw. His skin was warm, slightly rough from stretching cedar frames, his palm cradling the curve of my cheek with so much gentleness it made something deep in my chest ache.When his mouth met mine, my brain short-circuited.It was soft. Unhurried. A quiet question, not a demand
DIVORCED, I RETURNED TO MY POWERFUL BROTHERS. Chapter Forty
ImogenWorking with Adrian was dangerous.Not because he was pushy—he had the patience of a saint—but because keeping my guard up around him took conscious effort, and I was getting lazy.We’d spent three days on the fourth floor of the pavilion sorting out the layouts for Berlin and Tokyo. The room was a wreck: blueprints taped over the exposed brick, empty coffee cups lined up on the sill, paper color swatches scattered across the floor.Every time I pitched an idea, I braced myself out of habit. I’d explain a scale study, and my stomach would drop while I waited for the usual critique—too aggressive, too dark, or a lecture on how real galleries worked.Adrian never did that.He’d lean over the desk, tap his pencil against his teeth, look at my rough sketch, and say, “If we blow that panel up to three meters, the humidity in Tokyo will warp the stretchers. We brace it with cold-rolled steel or we back it with matte aluminum. Your call.”He didn’t treat me like an injured bird, and h
DIVORCED, I RETURNED TO MY POWERFUL BROTHERS. Chapter Thirty-nine
FrancisI told my assistant I was attending the Midtown preview because three logistics board members held seats on the museum committee.It was an easy excuse to give in the car. Professional presence. Showing up after the board inquiry.None of it was true.I went because the Reddin Foundation had co-sponsored the catalog release. I went because I couldn’t stop looking for any trace of what I had thrown away.The main hall was crowded. Glasses clinking, string players in the corner, critics moving between displays with small recorders.I stood by an archway holding a glass of scotch I hadn’t touched, pretending to read the program notes.Then I saw her.The breath went right out of me.Imogen was standing near the terrace glass with a glass of water in her hand. She wasn’t wearing the pale, high-collared dresses I used to pick out to keep her looking presentable next to my clients. She had on a plain black knit sweater, dark trousers, and scuffed flat boots. Her hair was pulled back
DIVORCED, I RETURNED TO MY POWERFUL BROTHERS. Chapter Thirty-eight
ImogenMy bedroom looked like an explosion in a dressing department.Sweaters were draped across the end of the bed, trousers hung over the vanity chair, and a pile of discarded dresses sat on the rug.I looked in the mirror, pulling a stiff silk blouse into place. It was just a meal. Food at a table.With Francis, getting dressed was managed down to the inch. Everything had a checklist: quiet tones that wouldn’t compete with his firm’s branding, collars cut high enough for board dinners, and shoes with heels that kept me at the right height next to his suit. Five years of assembling an outfit like a prop for someone else’s presentation.“The cream silk makes you look like an auditor,” Brett said from the hallway.I turned around, holding the cuffs of the blouse.Brett was leaning against the doorframe, peeling an orange with a pocketknife, watching with an amused look.“Do you ever knock?” I asked.“The door was halfway open, Minnie. And you’ve been sighing in here for an hour. Decla
DIVORCED, I RETURNED TO MY POWERFUL BROTHERS. Chapter Thirty-Seven
ImogenMy fork moved around the plate, cutting through a piece of potato, when my phone vibrated against my knee.I kept the screen low under the edge of the wood so Eugene wouldn’t start in on keeping devices off the table.Adrian: Still waiting on that pasta answer. The place on Fourth makes fresh pappardelle that will change your mind completely. Just putting it out there.A short breath escaped me, and I pressed my lips together, typing quickly below the ledge.Me: You don’t let things go, do you?Adrian: I have high standards for food, Imogen. There’s a difference.A slight smile showed on my face before I could check it.For five years, checking a message during a meal meant bracing for a notification from Francis’s office about a delayed schedule, or a pointed comment from Helena about an errand I hadn’t managed.Seeing a casual note about pasta felt like clean air in a closed room.“What are you grinning at?”My fork slipped, clattering against the plate.I looked up. Shannon
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