My Mother’s Husband

Vincent

I spent the next forty-eight hours actively running away from a twenty-four-year-old.

I left for the office before the sun rose, worked twelve-hour days, and didn't return until I was certain Olise would be asleep. His parting words from our confrontation in the kitchen—“Protective like a stepfather, or jealous like a man?”—had been looping in my mind like a fever dream.

I was a man defined by my iron-clad self-control. I had built an empire on calculated risks and unwavering discipline. Yet, a few words from my wife’s son had completely shattered my composure.

On the third evening, unable to focus on the financial reports spread across my desk, I stared at the gold band resting on my left ring finger. I needed a reality check. I needed a reminder of who I was, what my responsibilities were, and who I was married to.

I picked up my phone and dialed Miranda.

She answered on the fourth ring, the background filled with the ambient chatter of a high-end restaurant in Paris.

"Vincent, darling!" she greeted me, her voice light, airy, and entirely distracted. "I was just thinking about you. How is everything at the house?"

"It's quiet," I said, leaning back in my leather chair. I closed my eyes, trying to conjure the feeling of warmth I used to get when I heard her voice. There was nothing. Just an empty, hollow echo. "I miss you, Miranda. When are you flying back? I thought your flight was scheduled for tomorrow."

A heavy sigh came through the line. "Oh, sweetheart, about that... I am so, so sorry. The Galliard gallery opening got pushed back, and they've begged me to stay and oversee the final execution. I had to push my flight back by at least two weeks."

A cold, familiar weight settled into my chest. "Two weeks, Miranda? You’ve already been gone for a month."

"I know, I know! But this contract is massive for the firm," she pleaded, though her tone lacked any real remorse. It was the same excuse she had used for the last year. "Besides, you have Olise there to keep you company. How is he doing? Have you two been bonding?"

The question felt like a physical blow. Bonding. If she only knew.

"He's fine," I managed to say, my throat tight. "But Miranda... we need to talk. We haven't spent more than three consecutive days together in six months. Our marriage is—"

"Vincent, please, not tonight," she interrupted, her tone sharpening with irritation. "I’m in the middle of a dinner with the gallery directors. We'll talk when I get back, okay? Take care of Olise for me. Bye, darling."

The line went dead.

I slowly lowered the phone, staring at the dark screen. The truth was glaring, painful, and impossible to ignore anymore. Our marriage hadn't just been struggling; it had been dead for months. We were partners in name only, sharing a last name and a bank account, but absolutely nothing else.

And yet, the guilt of what I was feeling for her son still clawed at my throat.

The Library at Midnight

Needing to escape the suffocating silence of my study, I went downstairs to the library to pour myself a drink. I didn't turn on the overhead lights, preferring the soft, amber glow of the fireplace.

But as I stepped into the room, I realized I wasn't alone.

Olise was sitting on the plush leather sofa, his legs tucked up under him. He was wearing a soft, oversized black sweater that swallowed his frame, making him look incredibly young and vulnerable. On the low table in front of him sat an open bottle of my expensive bourbon and a half-empty glass.

"Olise," I said softly, not wanting to startle him.

He jumped slightly, his head snapping toward me. In the firelight, I could see his eyes were glassy, the rims red and swollen. He had been crying.

"Vincent," he murmured, his voice thick. He quickly wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater, trying to compose himself. "Sorry. I didn't think you'd be up. I can go back to my room..."

"No," I said, stepping further into the room. "Stay."

I walked over to the bar, poured myself a glass of the same bourbon, and walked over to the sofa. Instead of taking the armchair opposite him, I sat on the other end of the couch.

Olise kept his eyes trained on his glass, swirling the amber liquid. "She called me today," he whispered, his voice trembling. "She told me she's not coming home for another two weeks."

I closed my eyes briefly. "I know. She told me too."

"Of course she did," Olise let out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh, taking a long sip of his drink. "She probably told you first. She always does."

"Olise..."

"No, it’s fine. It’s always been like this," he interrupted, his guard completely crumbling. The confident, teasing boy from the breakfast table was gone, replaced by a hurting young man. "She’s spent my entire life choosing everything else over me. First it was her career, then her high-society friends, then her travels... and then she married you."

He turned his head to look at me, a tear finally escaping and tracking down his cheek.

"I thought... I thought when she married a man like you, she'd finally settle down. That maybe we'd have a real family. But she just kept running. She bought this massive house, filled it with beautiful things, and left us both in it alone. I’ve always felt like an afterthought to her, Vincent. A box she checked off."

The raw pain in his voice sliced right through me. I set my glass down on the table, my heart aching in a way it hadn't in years. I knew exactly what it felt like to be abandoned by Miranda, but to hear that this beautiful, vibrant boy had carried that abandonment his entire life broke something inside me.

"You are not an afterthought, Olise," I said, my voice thick with emotion.

I slid closer to him, bridging the gap between us on the sofa. "Your mother has... her flaws. She gets lost in her work, and she doesn't know how to slow down. But it has nothing to do with you. You are brilliant, and you are worthy of someone's undivided attention. Never doubt that."

Olise stared at me, his lip quivering. "Do you mean that?"

"With all my heart," I murmured.

With a soft sob, Olise closed the remaining distance between us. He leaned forward, burying his face in the crook of my neck, his hands clutching the fabric of my shirt. His body shook with quiet tears as he finally let go of the pain he’d been holding onto.

I froze for a fraction of a second, my mind screaming at me of the danger. But the instinct to protect him, to soothe his pain, overrode everything else.

I wrapped my arms tightly around him, pulling his warm, fragile body against mine. I rested my chin on the top of his head, inhaling the sweet, clean scent of his hair mixed with the smoky aroma of the bourbon. Olise let out a long, shaky breath and relaxed completely against me, resting his head heavily against my chest, right over my pounding heart.

Every instinct in my body, my honor, my marriage vows, my sense of duty screamed at me to pull back. To put distance between us.

But as I felt the steady rise and fall of his chest against mine, and the trusting way he clung to me in the dark, I realized I did not want to move away.