Page 159 of If You Claim Me
The images, while grainy, are damning. It’s very clear that it’s my father, and that the fair-haired, much younger woman in the pictures isnotmy mother. The compromising positions can’t be explained away either.
I squint. “Is that his secretary?”
“It’s not real,” Isabelle practically pleads. “This will ruin us.”
“It’ll ruin our father,” I correct. And possibly stain the Grace name.
Our family is about to be raked over the coals.
“Just tell me everything will be okay, Connor,” my sister begs.
“It’ll be okay. Think about all the times I’ve been in the media. It just bounces right off. You’re a Grace. It’s armor.”
“It doesn’t feel like armor right now. It feels like a curse.”
“I know. But we’ll get through it, Izzy.”
“Oh God, Julian just got home. I’m a wreck. I need to get myself under control before he sees me. I’ll talk to you soon. I love you.”
She hangs up before I can say it back.
My world feels like it’s crumbling around me. So I do what I do best. I send my father a single text, firing an arrow.
Connor
Who’s the embarrassment now?
CHAPTER 44
DRED
Iput my car in park and snap the scrunchie on my wrist a few times. No more walking on eggshells, or living in this state of limbo. Which means confronting my husband. I can’t keep spinning in questions with no answers.
“Give me strength,” I murmur as I leave the warmth of my car and step out onto the heated garage floor.
It’s been too easy to get used to this level of comfort. I take my time walking through the mansion, climbing the stairs to the second floor slowly, memorizing the feel of the banister under my fingers. My stomach churns as I approach the bedroom I’ve slept in every night for months.
I never meant to let Connor into my heart this way, but I’m here, in this place of uncertainty, and there’s only one way out. The bedroom door is ajar. I take a steadying breath and push it open.
My husband sits in my favorite chair, holding a half-empty glass of scotch, looking every bit the angry, regal billionaire son. I will him to stand, to open his arms and tell me he’s sorry for shutting me out this week, that he’s been overwhelmed, that he’s just as scared as me. But he remains seated, jaw set, eyes empty.
I’ve already lost him.
Or maybe I never had him.
But I ask the question, because I need to know my next move. “Who are we to each other?”
He taps his index finger on the arm of his chair, expression impassive. “You’re my wife, and I’m your husband.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Before Meems’s surgery, it felt like we were moving toward something deep and real, and now the rug is being pulled out from under me.
Again. Still. It’s the story of my life.
“What do you mean then, Dred?”
My nickname is a knife through my heart. I’m being reduced, minimized with a single word. He’s hurting me on purpose, pushing me away. But he doesn’t get to be the villain with me. I won’t give him the satisfaction of walking away without pulling the truth out of him, no matter how much it hurts. “How do you feel about me, Connor?”
