Semua Bab No Longer His Convenient Wife: Bab 21 - Bab 30

I wasn't sure what to do with that information.I came out in a dark grey robe and stopped in the doorway. She hadn't moved much. Still on her side, hand under her cheek, the lamp still casting that amber light across her face. I watched her for a moment from across the room. Then I walked around to the other side of the bed, pulled back the covers, and got in. The bed was large. I stayed on my side, left a full body's width between us. I had a perfectly reasonable explanation for this: I didn't want to be woken up at 3 a.m. That was it. That was the whole reason. I'd been lying there for less than a minute when she came for me. No hesitation. No half-measures. She rolled across that carefully maintained distance like it simply didn't exist — arm first, then leg, a brief pause that felt almost deliberate, like confirmation — and then her entire body settled into mine. Her head tucked under my chin. Her face found the curve of my neck. Her lips rested against my skin, warm and barel

Each sentence landed on my face like a match being struck."And you said my name in your sleep." I said nothing. "More than once." My nails found my palm. "Don't remember?" No. I didn't remember. I genuinely, completely did not remember, and the fact that he knew that and was saying it anyway said everything about what kind of morning this was going to be. "I was drunk," I said. My voice came out drier than I intended, which was the only victory available to me. "Things that happen when you're drunk don't count." He looked at me. Then, without any warning, his hand came up and curved around the back of my neck, and he pulled me toward him. We were close enough that I could feel his breath. Nose to nose, nearly. His eyes were very dark. His hand slid from my neck down my spine, slow, tracing each vertebra through the fabric. I went rigid, tried to pull back, and found his other hand already at my waist, holding me exactly where I was. His fingers kept moving. Down the curve of

I got back to the house at quarter past eight and stood at the front door for a second before going in, listening for voices. There were none. My mother had most likely left for the vineyard offices an hour ago. She had always been the first person in and the last person out, long before the sun came up and long after the workers had gone home. I had grown up with that rhythm, with the sound of her car pulling out of the gravel drive while the sky was still gray. This morning, for once in my life, I was grateful for it. Because I could not have had a conversation right now. Not yet at least. My dad’s truck keys were on the hook by the door, which meant he was doing the early rounds on foot. The house belonged entirely to me. I went upstairs, showered quickly, and changed into the only practical clothes I had packed—a pair of jeans and a navy flannel. When I finished, I sat down on the edge of the bed and stayed there longer than I meant to, my hands resting loosely in m

The words were spoken simply, without hesitation or sadness, the way children sometimes talk about things they have already accepted in a way adults never quite manage to. But the sentence landed heavily anyway. I slowly looked up at Weston. I hadn’t known. In the six months I had spent organizing the Thayer-Bennington wedding, coordinating schedules and venues and floral budgets and guest logistics, I had never once heard any mention of a child. There had been no wife in the background of the story either, no personal details at all beyond what was required for the event itself. Which, in hindsight, probably said more about Weston Thayer’s ability to protect his private life than it did about anything else. The missing pieces settled into place in my mind almost immediately. “I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I didn’t know. I’m very sorry for your loss.” He looked toward Maisie, who had already moved on from the conversation entirely and was now crouched in the grass near t

“She’ll think it was worth it.” He shook his head, clearly trying not to smile and failing. I looked away before he noticed that I had noticed. “Those plans you mentioned just now—do you have a full proposal for them?” I blinked and snapped back to the present. Digging through my bag, I pulled out the wrinkled notebook and handed it to him. “Just a rough framework for now. I’m aiming to flesh out the whole thing and get it profitable within three months.” He flipped through to the last page, then closed the notebook and looked up at me. His tone carried a touch more gravity than before. “Would you mind if I held on to this for a bit and took a closer look?” I hesitated. “Uh… I suppose that’s fine. But it’s handwritten, and this is my only copy…” “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll have someone return it tomorrow.” He paused, then added, “Or—would it be alright if I had a way to contact you? I might have a few thoughts after I read it.” He took a business card from his pocket and han