All Chapters of No Longer His Convenient Wife: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

Work resumed. I resumed. But my mind wasn’t on the oak. But one thought kept circling in the back of my mind. Sebastian hadn’t told his father about the divorce. *** I didn’t call Sienna until late afternoon. By then we’d set the last ceremony post and Theo had started arguing with Priya about the angle for the lighting. Cruz was trying to referee while still drilling. Normal chaos. I climbed into my truck, shut the door. She picked up on the second ring. “What did Sebastian do now?” I blinked. “How do you know it’s Sebastian?” “Because you only call me in the middle of the workday when it’s Sebastian.” Fair. “It’s not him,” I said. A pause. “Oh,” she said immediately. “That’s worse.” “It’s his father.” Another pause. “What did Alastair do?” “He called me.” “You’re lying.” “I’m not.” There was a rustling sound on her end like she’d just sat up straighter. “What did he want?” “He wants me to attend a family dinner .” Silence. Then— “

Fine. Not you’re not serious. Not the usual cold flat dismissal I’d had ready to push back against. Not the arrogant certainty that I’d fold if he just waited long enough. Just — fine. I didn’t know what to do with that word from him so I looked back out my own window. He looked tired. I noticed it before I could stop myself — the faint tension around his eyes, the specific kind of tired he got when he hadn’t slept, the kind most people wouldn’t clock because his face was too trained for most people to read anything into it but I had spent three years loving him and my brain still knew his face whether I wanted it to or not. I looked away before he caught me at it. My hand drifted to my coat pocket without me deciding to move it. Just rested there against the slight resistance of the paper underneath. I thought about the heartbeat on the screen. The thought had been circling me for days. He should know he’s going to be a father. But I also knew Sebastian. The faint blac

He paused. “The Montclair family has maintained ties with the Caldwells for generations. They are acting as intermediaries in the negotiation.” I knew where this was going before he said the next sentence. “For the acquisition to succeed, the Hawthorne and Montclair families must appear publicly aligned.” My fingers curled around my napkin. “Which is why Sebastian and Arabella have been seen together recently.” There it was. Alastair met my eyes. “This arrangement will last until the acquisition closes,” he said. “Approximately four months.” I’d spent the drive here preparing myself for something. I wasn’t sure what — some version of this, probably. A reason. An apology. An explanation that would make the hospital room and the phone call and the car and Arabella’s photo all make sense in some way I could work with. And now I had the explanation. And I was sitting there thinking: which one is actually worse. Sebastian having an affair with Arabella — that would hurt

I stand there. The driver opens her door. She gets in. She doesn’t look back — not once, not even a glance in the window. The car pulls away and the gate closes behind it and I’m standing on my father’s front steps in the dark still holding her divorce papers like an idiot. Then I walk to my car, get in and drive. The papers went on the passenger seat. I didn’t look at them. I turned the radio off after thirty seconds because I couldn’t stand the noise and drove the rest of the way in silence and told myself I wasn’t in a mood. I just needed to get back and work. The hotel suite is exactly as I left it. Of course it is. I pay enough for it to be. I hang the jacket. Parallel on the hanger, not thrown over the chair the way Dahlia used to leave hers. I set my shoes at the closet. I wash my hands at the bathroom sink — once, then again, because the evening involved too many people. I hadn’t gone back to the house. I’d told myself it was practical — the hotel was closer to the

I should not have worn these shoes. That’s the thought running on repeat while I’m standing in what can only be described as a biological crime scene. I am acutely, physically aware of every millimeter of the dirt under my feet but I am not going to look down because looking down is losing and I have already lost enough ground today, literally. The farm looks different in person than it did on my phone screen at one in the morning. A not so bad kind of different. Clayton is still at the safe edge of the mud line. Smart man. Smarter than me, apparently. Her hand is still raised slightly from where I caught her wrist. “Why are you actually here, Sebastian.” Not a question. She never makes it a question. That’s the part that gets under my skin — the way she asks things like she already knows and is giving me a chance to say it myself before she does. “I—We need to talk.” “This is your talking face?” she says. I grit my teeth. “I’m serious.” She tilts her head,