Page 100 of I Wish I Would've Warned You

He almost smiles. “I’ll remember that. Thank you.”

“You can leave the same way you came in.” I walk toward the back wall, ready to start re-centering frames.

But instead of standing, he stays seated, voice softer now. “Cole, I came here to apologize. For real. Not to play mind games, not to spin my side of the story—I just want to say I’m sorry.”

I don’t say anything.

“I know I’ve hurt you more times than I can count. I spent years prioritizing optics and strangers over my own son. I let my ego, my career, and my image come before your safety, your truth, your future.” His voice catches. “And the worst part is, I let you take the fall for my mistake. I watched you get swallowed by a system I should’ve protected you from.”

Still, I say nothing.

“I can’t undo it. I wish to God I could,” he continues. “But I want to spend whatever time I have left—on this side of the bars or the other—trying to make things right. Not because I expect your forgiveness. Just because you deserve that much.”

I glance at him, trying to gauge if this is just another performance.

“I haven’t touched a drink since the night you walked out,” he adds, like he can feel my doubt. “No rehab center yet, but I’ve started individual therapy, and I’ve already asked the court to allow me into group sessions once I’m in custody.”

He shifts forward on the couch, elbows on his knees. “You were right about me and Heather.”

That catches me off guard.

“We’ve been over for a long time,” he says. “We just kept pretending. Playing house. Smiling for cameras, throwing parties, posting anniversary photos like it meant something.” His jaw tightens. “We were living in a fairytale that didn’t exist. And I dragged you into it.”

I don’t know what to say to that. I don’t know what to say to any of this.

I’m not ready to forgive him. Not completely. But maybe—just maybe—I can stop hating him enough to see if he means it this time.

Before I can open my mouth, he clears his throat.

“I hired a few private investigators to help me find Emily.”

My chest tightens. “You did what?”

“I figured if you weren’t going to look for her, I could at least try. I know what she meant to you. What she still means.”

I clench my jaw. “And?”

“They found her,” he says. “She’s staying off-grid, but I know where she’ll be this weekend.”

“You knew this whole time and led with a speech?”

“I had to say the hard things first,” he says. “But I’m saying this now: if you still love her, don’t waste another second.”

He stands and hands me a folded slip of paper, his eyes bloodshot, but clearer than I’ve seen in years.

“She’s your real fresh start,” he says. “Not your art. Not these shows. Her.”

And with that, he walks out the front door, leaving it open behind him.

Letting the choice be mine.

49

EMILY

Taylor’s wedding weekend is at a lavish estate in The Hamptons, the kind of place where the air smells like roses and old money. Ivy climbs the whitewashed columns of the main house, and a fountain gurgles beside a winding cobblestone drive. Inside, the chandeliers gleam like starlight, and the air-conditioned halls echo with the hush of polished heels and practiced charm. Everything smells faintly of gardenias and champagne. There’s a full orchestra tuning in the distance.

I’ve helped her plan every detail—from the signature cocktails to the custom linens—but there’s one person on the guest list I never quite prepared for.

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