Page 142 of The Perfect Mistake

Dad’s eyes widen, but his voice turns nasty. “And what do you know about Lauren?”

“Your affair with her is over a decade long,” I say. Our COO had been a staple at Contron for as long as I can remember, and she remains fiercely devoted to Dad. Why is that hard to see, considering he’s kept her at arm’s length with this psycho-babble for years? You see, I can’t offer anything more stable because you might be a gold digger.

“That’s none of your business,” he says.

“Just like my relationship with Isabel is none of yours,” I fire back. “God, you know nothing. She’s the last person who would be a trophy wife. She’s the least—she’s the one who’d be sacrificing things in her life by being with me. She’d have to answer questions from everyone about the age gap and become a stepmother at twenty-five. Maybe some women would gladly sign up to that in exchange for a cushy life, but not her. If you knew anything about her, you’d know she’s not afraid of working hard.” I raise a finger in his direction. “Any of the things you said to me in here, you will never say to her, or I swear to God, I will never talk to you again.”

Dad shakes his head. “You’re threatening me over a girl you’ve known what, a month? Two?”

Fuck. Being with me, really being mine, would mean dealing with all of it—the Contron expectations, the business travel, the strained family relations, and the eventual inheritance battle over the appointment of the next CEO.

It means having this man as the father-in-law.

That realization sends a surge of venom through me. “Dad, you're not getting a seat back on the board.”

He gives a shocked cackle. “You’re denying my spot because of a fight about this new girl of yours? If that’s where you’re at, I can’t believe I ever made you the CEO.”

“No. I decided that as soon as you asked me, but I entertained the idea to humor you.” I cross my arms over my chest and level him with the stare he taught me so many years ago. “The company is moving on. You should too, and your interference within the executive team is not welcomed. We don’t need your input. You’re harming, not helping.”

“That’s presumptuous,” Dad says.

“No, it’s the truth. If you want to mend the relationship with your daughter, you will call her. You will set up a lunch. And you will make it clear to her that while her choice of a husband surprised you, you respect her ability to make her own decisions. You will also praise her for the work she’s doing for the Connovan Foundation. You’ve told me privately that it’s off to a good start, so you’ll tell her. To her face.”

Dad’s eyes narrow even further. “But that’s not all you want me to do, is it?”

“No. I want you to take your prejudices, your emotional immaturity, and whatever else sparked your reaction to my relationship with Isabel and shove it up your fucking ass,” I say. “I’m not a neglectful father or an incompetent CEO because I may fall in love and marry again. And I wasn’t a bad husband to Victoria because I’m choosing to move on. And if I were you, I’d realize the same thing about myself, and maybe ask Lauren out on a proper date. If she’s still willing after waiting around all this time for you to have an ounce of courage.”

Dad’s face is red. I don’t know if it’s with anger or with shock. It might be both, and I know he’s reached his limit. The man can only handle so much until he explodes.

“Courage,” he spits out.

“Yes. Your wife died,” I say. “Well, Dad, so did mine. There’s no worse experience. But I’m learning that life has to keep going, and we have to keep living. Mom would have wanted that for you, too.”

We don’t stay long.

The kids want some dessert, and we eat it with Nate in the living room while Dad sulks somewhere in the apartment. My brother gives me a few curious looks.

“Later,” I tell him after the third time he looks my way.

He nods, letting things go. In a few days, Nate is flying back to London, but he’ll be back soon enough. He mentioned that his friend Dean got engaged, and he’s been asked to be the best man.

I’ve tried to be better at remembering things. More caring. For a long time, not caring was the safer option. Maybe it still is. But that doesn’t make it the right one.

Beside me, Isabel is mostly quiet as we head home. Mac drives us. He’s off tomorrow for Thanksgiving and will be away the entire weekend. Isabel asks him about his plans, and they chat about his son and Mac’s impending trip down to DC.

When we arrive, there’s a cake in the fridge, and this time, the kids take their time blowing out my candles. Forty-one. Not once had I thought about aging, or reflected on my age, until I met Isabel.

And now, she’s standing next to me and laughing with my kids, looking so magnificently, incandescently, wonderfully alive with youth and possibilities.

It isn’t until later that evening, once the kids are in bed and the apartment is finally quiet, that I have the chance to say what I’ve needed to all afternoon.

Isabel is sitting on the edge of the kitchen island. Her dark eyes are unreadable, her features calm like the untouched surface of a lake. I’ve always loved her graceful composure. I think it’s what struck me, the first time Connie introduced me to her new friend, even before I noticed her beauty. It made me wonder what lies beneath it.

I step in between her thighs and wrap my arms around her waist. “I’m sorry for how he spoke to you.”

“Hi,” she whispers. Her hand brushes back my hair, her skin is cool against mine.

“I’m sorry about today,” I say again. “Sorry that you had to be on the receiving end of it… And I’m sorry this isn’t more simple.”

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