What Remains of Us
Six years after our divorce, I ran into Owen Hughes again—at a police station.
I was there to pick up my father's belongings. He was the newly appointed young sheriff.
Just as everyone was toasting his new marriage, our eyes met across the room. Neither of us spoke.
Until I turned to leave, and his voice came low behind me:
"Aubrey—are you still hate me?"
I shook my head.
He'd gone from bodyguard to undercover hero. I'd gone from heiress to nobody with a new name and a quiet life.