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I blink, almost laughing. My parents want to bribe me to become a dutiful daughter?

Stunned by their lack of compassion or affection, by their negligence and absence of any parenting skills, I rack my brain for words to say.

I don’t get to say anything, because my husband’s fist lands in my father’s face. Charles van den Linden stumbles, patting his bleeding lip as he leans against a door frame.

“You’ll regret it,” Dad warns. “I have witnesses.”

Cal chuckles. “No witnesses here, Dad. Just get the fuck out.”

Corm shakes his hand, his knuckles red, and turns to me. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“You shouldn’t, but I’m glad you did.” I smile.

And for the first time in a very long time, I feel like I truly have someone in my corner. Which is confusing as fuck since that someone means nothing to me.

Chapter 30

Corm

The car stops in front of Mom’s apartment building. I get out and hold out my hand for Saar. I haven’t tried to kiss her since that almost-kiss in the hospital.

I can’t have a taste. Not until she’s fully on board. I can’t give the stupid hope more power.

So I’ve been waiting.

I’ve been waiting patiently.

Okay, not so patiently.

But I do wait.

It’s her call now.

Mundane tasks have filled the four weeks since Saar returned from the hospital. She’s integrated back into life gradually. She’s back in the studio recording the podcast, and her audience is soaring.

Her physiotherapy is progressing nicely; she manages without the painkillers, and is regaining complete mobility in her arm.

The sick bastard in me almost regrets that development, because now she is less and less dependent on me, and it fucking sucks.

We coexist in some strange harmony. It’s even more fake than our fake relationship was before. Because this time around, we don’t pretend for the public; we avoid in private.

It’s like being in love with a woman who lives behind a glass wall. She is here, within my grasp, but the wall is impenetrable.

Some days feel like a continuation of before. We eat together, we laugh, we talk. Other days, she retreats somewhere I can’t reach her.

I fucking wish she didn’t try so hard to remember. That she would just stay in the present. The present is painfully fragile, but at least it allows her to form new memories of us.

The whole situation between us is so tentative, it drives me crazy. But at the same time, it teaches me patience.

Fuck, if someone had ever told me my life would revolve around the needs of a woman, I would have laughed at them.

But here I am, putting someone else first, trying to let go of my inherent need to control her, to control the situation. Because at the end of the day, I can’t fucking control her mind.

“You’re here.” My mom greets us with a smile that guts me. And reminds me I ignored her for way too long.

“Sorry we’re late,” Saar says, a bit startled by my mom’s embrace.

“You’re here, that’s what matters. Come on in. I love your dress.”