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DORIAN

What are you up to, Caroline?

Her cheeks flush, and her astute nose tilts upwards slightly. I ache to pull her against me, to push my nose into her hair and learn if she’s changed her shampoo or perfume—the hell with her scent. I want to hold her again.

Don’t be a loser.

Is that my father’s voice, or mine? After forty years of Halston Moore’s particular brand of tough love, sometimes it’s hard to tell where his ruthless pragmatism ends and mine begins. The old man would say I’m being weak, letting her affect me like this.

“You’re my wife. You had to know I’d keep up with you.”

“Have an employee on it, do you? An assistant? A team?”

The sharp tone is new. She’s stronger. More demanding. She’s become a better person without me in her life. Healthier. “Who was that man at the door?”

Who is this determined woman? What’s driving her?

In our world of calculated moves and strategic plays, nobody shows up without an agenda.

She left me—walked away from the wealth, the influence, all of it.

That kind of conviction always gave her power.

Made her different from the others. Independent.

“Jesus, Dorian, are you going to answer any of my questions?”

“Sorry.” I blink, snapping myself out of my head. “One of my father’s employees.”

“Security?”

“No.”

Geoffrey’s definitely not security. I wonder how long it will be before facial recognition identifies Caroline, and Geoffrey figures out who she is. Perhaps security already identified her, and that’s why Geoffrey showed up at my door, eager to send her on her way.

Didn’t he meet her? Maybe not. She met with my financial advisor, not Geoffrey. The sixty-something-year-old man doesn’t strike me as the type to read Page Six and the like. He’s the guy you want on your team when making stock picks, not on a pop culture trivia night.

I don’t remember exactly when Geoffrey became an integral part of my father’s life.

By the time Dad introduced me to Geoffrey, he’d been working with him for a long time, and I hadn’t yet entered the family business.

I was busy rebelling against the Moore legacy, building satellite prototypes in Oxford’s engineering lab while my father’s empire waited.

Geoffrey was already there when I finally stepped into Bedrock, wearing suits that cost more than my first research grant.

I didn’t expect Geoffrey to move to Colorado with us, but Dad is his only client, and he might be Dad’s only true friend.

“Are you planning to fly me back to Denver?”

Caroline’s annoyed. As she should be. It’s too easy to get lost in my head.

“I said I would.” I rub my temple, and the pain intensifies. The light brightens. Fuck .

“That man mentioned me leaving today.”

She listened, did she?

“Tomorrow morning.” She avoids my gaze. “As planned. We have things to discuss. Don’t you think?” The words come out with the same careful neutrality I use in hostile takeover negotiations. Ironic—that’s essentially what this is. A corporate restructuring of the heart.

Those unforgettable blue eyes widen. Incredulous. And angry.

What is this anger? Time mellowed my anger. Why hasn’t it done the same to hers?

“We can’t fly back this afternoon. Winds are picking up. It’s inadvisable.” It’s a lie. A cold front is moving in, but the expected winds wouldn’t prevent the helicopter from flying. But she won’t push it. She’s a nervous flier.

“I see.”

Does she doubt me? Does she want to fight?

“I’ll fly you back in the morning. As planned,” I reiterate.

The teapot boils, and she goes to it. I rest my palms against the island, watching her closely.

Her jeans are loose along the length of her legs, up to her shapely ass.

Her light sweater hangs loose, skimming above her hips, mostly concealing her curves.

Even in casual attire, she’s professional and polished because she’s here for business.

I should follow her lead. God knows I’ve spent enough time in boardrooms to recognize when someone’s building up to a proposal.

The Moore method: let them reveal their position first. Never show your hand until you have to.

She hasn’t asked about the divorce agreement, and I won’t be the one to broach the subject.

“Do you live here full-time?”

“These days, yes.”

“I would’ve never expected you to move to Colorado.”

That’s not a topic to discuss with her. Talk about her family.

“How are your parents?”

“You’ve already asked about them.”

So I have. But there is a question I haven’t yet asked.

“Are you seeing anyone?”

“That’s not your business.”

That’s not a yes. Which means she’s not. That’s good. Don’t be a jackass. She’s not here to pick up where we left off.

My vision blurs, and I squeeze my eyes shut while kneading my temple. The migraine’s timing couldn’t be worse; I have a video call with the European Space Agency in six hours about orbital patterns for the new constellation launch.

Nausea circulates. The swift onslaught of symptoms is ominous.

“You’re still getting migraines?”

She remembers.

“Not the kind of thing to go away.”

“Are you eating gluten?”

My brow aches, and I press into the bone with my fingers, soothing the tight muscles with a circular motion. Shit. I’m probably overdue for Botox injections.

“Dorian? If you don’t take care?—”

“The gluten-free diet didn’t help.”

She’d been adamant it would. She’d been wrong.

“How long did you give it?”

“Years.”

“It’s hard to stay on a gluten-free diet.”

I exhale frustration. Of course, she believes it’s my fault. “I hired chefs. It wasn’t that hard. Simply didn’t help.”

Is it so hard to believe that all her new-age crap didn’t work?

“I hired some of the best doctors—” Pain sears behind my eyes.

“You are so stubborn.”

“Projecting?”

Pressure on my arm has me squeezing my eyelids open into slits, confirming she is indeed touching me.

“What’s a good room to lie down in? One we can darken?”

I squeeze my eyes closed, breathing deeply to control the nausea.

“Dorian?”

“My bedroom.”

One eyelid cracks open, watching her. The answer wasn’t intended to be sexual, but we once shared a bedroom, and having her in mine again dredges up memories. The desire roared back the moment I saw her silhouette. But not now. She could be naked in front of me, and I couldn’t touch her.

My employees would have a fit seeing someone lead me anywhere—the moody boss helpless, being guided through his own house. The irony isn’t lost on me. The pressure on my arm intensifies.

“What?” Jesus, I’m growling at her.

“Let’s go.”

Funny how she can still command my compliance when my board of directors can’t.

“Keep walking.”

Poetic. She’s forcing me into a bedroom, and I’m too incapacitated to do anything about it.

Through a squinted lid, I stumble to the stairs and press the master dimmer switch.

The house’s environmental system automatically dims the lights to 30 percent—a feature I had custom-designed after the migraines started getting worse.

The Italian marble underfoot cost more than most homes, but right now, it’s just another hard surface to navigate.

Her hand never leaves my arm, letting me know she’s right there.

“I’m surprised you didn’t choose a bedroom next to your office.”

How does she know where my office is?

“I saw you walking to the adjacent building. You said that’s your office, right?”

“Home office,” I answer.

Fuck, my head hurts.

“I’m surprised you didn’t put your bedroom next to your home office,” she repeats.

We finally reach my bedroom, and I toe off my shoes and collapse onto the bed, resting an arm over my eyes. She leaves my side, and once again, I force an eyelid open to see.

“There’s a button. A remote. On the dresser.”

She finds it, and the shade falls from the ceiling, draping the room in blissful darkness.

I listen as she steps into the bathroom. “Is your medicine in here?”

“Press on the floor-length mirror. It opens to a medicine cabinet.”

“Jesus, Dorian. How much medicine are you taking?”

“A lot is probably expired.”

She might not hear me. I have the house manager handle most things, but my medicine cabinet is private.

“What do you want to take?” she calls.

Dammit. I’m going to have to get up and get it.

I push off?—

“No.”

I freeze at the sharpness.

Water runs from a faucet in the bathroom.

“Lie back. I’ve got it.” Her voice echoes slightly in the marble bath.

Steps sound against the marble, then stop. She’s near.

Pills rattle in a bottle.

“Why do you have so many bottles of Vicodin?”

“It works.” Unlike the experimental treatments from that neurologist in Switzerland or the cutting-edge therapy my medical team insisted would be revolutionary.

“That can’t be good for you.”

For the first time since she walked out the door so many years ago, I feel a measure of gratitude that she left.

She raps my chest. “Take these.”

I pop the pills, swallowing them together.

“You don’t want water? I have water.”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you drinking enough water? Drink this.”

“Just leave. I’ll be fine.”

How many times has this scene played out?

“No. You need water.”

“I can’t keep it down.”

“You don’t have to drink the whole glass. Wet your tongue.”

Her hand slips behind my head, lifting me slightly, and the cool glass presses on my lips.

It’s awkward. But I sip. My mouth is dry, so I drink more.

She pulls on my sweater. “Sit up.”

“What?”

“I’m going to try something.”

Dizziness and nausea swirl.

The bed sinks, and she says, “Lie back.”

Confused, I crack an eye open. She’s sitting on my bed. Her back to the headboard.

“Lay your head down here.” She pats her denim-clad thigh.

She’s kicked off her running shoes, and her multicolored socks blur.

I lie back until my head rests on her thigh. She reaches for a pillow, tells me to lift, then recline.

“Better?”

“Yes.”

“Close your eyes.” And her fingers take over.

Magic. It’s the only word for her touch. She soothes the pain. Comfort and warmth permeate my chest. My neck muscles strain, but those magical fingers ease the muscles. I want to lie like this forever.

“You’ve never done this before.”

“You always told me to leave you alone.”

“Did I say that out loud?”

“Yes.” Amusement laces her answer.

“Damn.” What pills did she give me?

“These pills are going to knock you out, aren’t they?”

“I hope not. This feels like heaven.”

“You don’t take care of yourself.”

“I have an entire staff that takes care of everything.” It’s true—a machine of efficiency that runs my life while I run a company that tracks everything from weather patterns to global security threats. Twenty thousand employees worldwide.

“Yet you get migraines.”

“Why are you here?” My tone is purposefully soft. I don’t want an argument.

“You know why.”

I let my neck turn, face against her thigh, ending the conversation.

She’s here for the divorce agreement. Another contract to negotiate, another asset to divide.

The irony never escapes me—I can orchestrate a satellite launch from my phone, but I couldn’t keep my marriage in orbit.

Father would say that’s the price of empire-building, and he would know.

We can’t negotiate when I’m incapacitated. I need sleep.