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DORIAN

“You’d marry me all over again?”

I don’t need to see her face to read into her quiet, uncertain tone. I’m probably her biggest regret.

“Dorian, our marriage?—”

“I’m not saying there aren’t things I would change.” She has to know that. No one wants to endure the death of a relationship.

“Like what?”

There’s no harm in telling her. It’s what I’ve wanted to tell her for years. With an exhale, I lay it out there.

“For one, I would’ve never let you go.”

The words come out with none of the precision I use in the boardroom. This isn’t a business negotiation—it’s the raw truth I’ve avoided for years. The kind of vulnerability that has no place in the world of high finance and global telecommunications.

She slowly lifts from my chest, those questioning blue eyes taking me in. My gaze drops to her soft, full lips.

I inch closer, eyes locked on hers.

My breath grows shallow—the world blurs.

She shakes her head, the back-and-forth motion hitting like a submerged boulder in white water rapids. I should’ve seen it coming by the flow of the water, yet it’s a painful shock all the same.

Her fingers press on my clavicle, pushing me away.

I force myself to swallow and cover her fingers with mine.

“I did what was best for us,” she pleads.

She’s sincere. I see it in her expression.

“Do you really believe that?” The only way that’s true is if we had continued sliding downhill into an abyss. It’s only true if we had no fix.

“No.” She pushes back, putting more distance between us, and the chilly air fills the divide. “I did what was best for me. I was… I lost myself.”

A memory surfaces. A rolling rack of dresses.

“Your father sent these.”

She’d sounded angry.

“He asked that I wear Marilyn-approved dresses when I attend public functions.”

“She’s his publicist.”

“I think she’s more than that.”

I understood what she was implying, but I also didn’t care. “He doesn’t do single well.”

She looked at the rack of dresses with disdain. I flicked through the envelopes stacked on the counter. If she had an assistant like I requested she hire, there wouldn’t be mail in the house.

“If you don’t like them, don’t wear them.” I didn’t care what she wore, and I didn’t care about pleasing my father’s most recent conquest, either. What I did care about was my father questioning if I had the bandwidth to launch a new company and hold my place on the board.

“No, it’s fine.”

She might have said something more, she might not. But she hadn’t been fine. Why hadn’t I seen it? I disregarded garments as being immaterial.

But our marriage didn’t end over a disagreement on attire.

I heard her, but I didn’t listen. I grew up with public interest in my family.

With our marriage, she was thrown into the spotlight, and I expected her to deal with it.

Perhaps my father steamrolled her. He handled her the way he handles everything.

I saw it and did nothing. Hell, maybe I steamrolled her.

I begged her to marry me within months of meeting her in a bar.

“What’re you thinking?” Her voice pulls me out of the memory.

I swallow, hesitant. But why hesitate? There’s nothing to lose here. I lost years ago.

“That I amend my statement from earlier. When you left, I should’ve followed. Moved us to another country. Become a professor somewhere or something.”

“A professor.” She’s mocking me. That’s fine. “Are you kidding?”

“You could’ve pursued what you wanted.” It would’ve been a better choice. What the hell was I expecting when she quit her job because the paparazzi hounded her, making her associate-level job impossible while I was off working fifteen-hour days?

“You needed to prove yourself to your father. And you did, didn’t you?”

“Did I?”

“You founded Zenith. You’re chairman of the board at Bedrock Advisory.”

“Nepotism flourishes.” The same argument I’ve had in my head through every board meeting, every acquisition. Even with a global communications empire, I’m still Halston Moore’s son first. The Harvard MBA and Oxford doctorate don’t change that.

“Bullshit. Your father has power, but when he retired, the board could’ve picked someone else.”

Unlikely. “Let’s not talk about my father.”

“Are you not getting along with him these days?”

“Depends on the day.” The wind whistles through the trees, and I listen intently for sirens. Maybe the rescue team won’t use sirens. It’s not like there’s traffic to avoid out here.

Her nails scrape across my cheek. She’s tender, but insistent. With her touch, she pulls me back from my mental confines.

Her hair, understandably, is a mess, but she’s still beautiful. She’s the most stunning when she’s raw and real. I brush some tangled strands behind her ear and see the small pearl earring. Does she still own the diamonds I gave her?

“Dorian?”

Without thinking, I lean in and press my lips to her forehead.

“If I could go back and redo that last year, I would. I closed you out. And I just... Biggest mistake of my life.”

Funny how I grew a business from nothing, but I couldn’t figure out how to keep my wife. Some things can’t be solved with market analysis and risk management strategies.

“Oh, I think it all worked out for you.”

There’s a wry tone I don’t get. I’m cracking my chest open and bleeding here. “What do you mean by that?”

“Supermodels. Actresses. You seemed to do just fine.”

Oh. That. The carefully orchestrated public appearances that kept the papers talking about the billionaire bachelor’s extracurriculars instead of his failed marriage.

Every photo op was calculated to project strength, to maintain market confidence, at least until I couldn’t take it anymore and lost myself in an endless succession of conference rooms around the globe.

She’s tense. Avoiding my gaze. There’s no reason to play games. It was a shitty ploy to begin with.

“Honestly?”

“No, lie to me.” The sarcasm is definitely new. I have half a mind to spank her ass.

“I wanted you to see those photos. I hoped you’d get jealous, come back, and fight.” She never even called.

“You just told me you don’t say what you’re thinking because you want to avoid fighting.”

“That’s different. Verbal sparring differs from…you coming back and telling me…” That you want me. Jesus, is it so hard to grasp what I’m saying?

“I stopped reading magazines. The New York Post . Any publication I thought might mention you, I avoided.”

“That’s not the reaction I desired.”

“If you wanted me back, why didn’t you say? Why didn’t you call?”

You left.

“I wanted you to have the life you wanted.” A shrill cry from a hawk overhead cuts through the sky. “Did you get it?”

She exhales in frustration. Only I haven’t said anything argumentative.

I would like to know—has she been happy?

Who was the guy texting her? Is he the reason she quit her job at the CIA and moved to California?

How serious are they? Is it a healthy relationship?

Does he give her everything I couldn’t? Does he make her happy?

“Are you sure we shouldn’t try to find a road?”

Classic.

Change of subject.

“They had our coordinates when we went down. There’s a transponder.” The same precision tracking we use for our satellites is now being used to find us. “Unless you’ve developed navigational skills, we’re better off waiting for them as opposed to wandering in the San Juan Mountains.”

“How are you always so calm? So in control?”

Stay focused. Analyze the situation. Maintain composure. The calmness she hates was the only thing keeping me from falling apart when she left.

Yes, she always hated that I stayed calm when faced with reporters.

If she was alone, they scared her. I failed to take her fear seriously.

I tried to keep the paparazzi away, but I felt equally frustrated that she couldn’t just smile and adjust. I felt worse because I couldn’t stop them.

If she’d smiled more, posed, given them some money shots, they wouldn’t have been so ever-present.

“You’re doing it again.” The accusation grabs my attention.

“What?” How can I possibly be doing anything wrong? I’m sitting still, holding her.

“You’re lost in your head. There’s a whole conversation going on in there.”

“It’s easy to get lost in what I did wrong.”

“What do you believe you did wrong?”

There’s no mistaking the taunt. The desire to trap me by allowing me to say the wrong thing.

“I didn’t listen. I didn’t take your concerns seriously. And, when you weren’t happy, I felt like a failure, so I focused my energy on areas of my life where I was winning.”

My fingers brush the side of her face. The smooth skin is cool to the touch.

Her light blue eyes, irises the color of the sky on a crisp, clear, hopeful day, glimmer.

My chest aches with the pull to her. She’s the one I failed to forget, and I’ll probably never get over her. Whatever pain I endure, I deserve.

“How’d I do? Did I miss anything?”