My heart cartwheels over my lungs.
We did our jobs.
And bonus points, we’re telling the truth.
“But you misunderstood my intentions,” she says. I note a slight tick at her jawline, and my stomach goes queasy. “I assumed you were trying to thwart me by marrying each other and eliminating Rosalind from the equation. I expected your union to be superficial. A legal arrangement only.”
“And you were wrong,” Bridger says. “Again.” He pulls mecloser to him, his palm still pressed to my hip. Margaret’s arms hang stiff at her sides.
“I came here in person to confirm my suspicions that you two were not, in fact, a legitimate couple,” she says. “Instead, I found irrefutable proof of the genuine bond between the two of you.”
“Margaret.” I square my shoulders. “I know it’s hard to admit a mistake, but surely you’re happy for us. Happy for Bridger?”
“On the contrary.” Her tone is steely. “Real love is thelastthing I want my son to feel.”
“Sorry, Mom.” His strong palm slides down from my hip to take my hand, fingers entwining. “That’s what you got.”
“Fortunately, time heals all wounds.” She sighs. “And this one, deep as it may cut at first, will be a memory soon enough.”
A buzz of alarm sounds in my ears. “What wound, exactly?”
She glances out the window. “My car will be here soon,” she says. “And I’ll be heading back to New York. I’ve contacted Rosalind’s father. The arrangements are made.”
Bridger scoffs. “What arrangements?”
Margaret’s eyes go cold. “You have a week to end this marriage. Then you’ll make Rosalind your wife.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Loren
At first, no one speaks.
The room is so quiet, I count the seconds ticking on the grandfather clock. When I get to thirty, Bridger starts to laugh. Loud and deep. The guttural roll echoes off the marble, and a shiver runs up my spine. Still, Margaret holds my gaze.
She isn’t kidding. She waits for silence again, then she says, “You’ll get over this infatuation.”
“The hell we will,” Bridger mutters, shaking his head. “Wow, Mom. Wow. Just when I thought I’d seen it all. This is some next-level delusion right here.”
“I assure you, I am quite lucid.”
Her eyes skid to me, a quick reminder that she knows everything about my dad. The diagnosis that could very well come for me someday.
I thought I didn’t want to know. I’d convinced myself that living for the moment was the right choice. My strongestdefense. Now I’m more determined than ever to gather whatever information I can. To take control of my future in whatever ways I can.
I won’t turn my life over to anyone.
Least of all Margaret Adams.
“You’ll just have to trust me, son,” she says. Her hand goes to her bag, and she clutches it to her side. “This is for the best. I know firsthand.”
“Is this about Dad?” he grits out. “Some kind of absurd reaction to him bailing on us two decades ago?”
Her lips tighten into a line. “Love is an illusion,” she says. “A shiny object. Bright. Temporary. What’s real—what truly lasts—is legacy.”
“You’re not delivering a speech in the boardroom,” Bridger huffs. “You aren’t a trustee right now.You’re my mother.”
“Yes, and as your mother, I can tell you’re no longer motivated by what’s best for the family. Or for our business. Your choices will always be contingent on makingherhappy.”