Page 27

CAROLINE

“Always.”

The absence of truth in that one word echoes through my chest cavity.

The garage wall blurs as I’m swept back to the decisive day I stood in the dining room of our Manhattan townhome—wasted square footage—decorated by a designer his father insisted we use.

You might need to entertain, and you need to make the right impression .

Those had been his father’s words, uttered on one of his first visits to our home when we first moved in together, but before we’d married.

The big rumor at the time had been that I was pregnant, and that’s why Dorian proposed. I wanted to laugh it off like Dorian had, but I began to check my profile in the mirror before leaving the house, looking for any hint that might be misconstrued as a baby bump.

When Halston came to visit, I attempted to assure him, but he threw a hand up in the air, insisting it was fine.

He believed the lie, I think, even though I made it a point to always order an alcoholic drink when dining with him, even at lunch.

He didn’t seem to care about my pregnancy status, as long as we complied with his wishes.

In retrospect, Halston’s insistence on a formal dining room was one of many warnings I ignored.

Dutifully, after our wedding, we decorated the dining room and entry to ensure we could entertain business associates.

We never used that dining room. Not once.

Halston’s generation may have required entertaining at home to rise in the ranks, but our generation met in restaurants.

Or at least, Dorian scheduled his social business arrangements in restaurants or clubs.

Your prenup is ironclad, right?

The question I overheard while staring at the pretentious foyer chandelier rings through my mind. My throat tightened, making it hard to swallow. I waited, en route to the kitchen to fetch their drinks, to hear Dorian’s response. The two men were across the hall in our small den.

His father had observed a disagreement. We didn’t yell, but it was tense. Dorian asked me to reschedule his dinner plans to accommodate his father, treating me like an assistant. It hit me wrong, and I responded with a sarcastic, “As you wish, dear.”

Dorian picked up on it, rolled his eyes, and said, “Don’t start.

” He glowered, and the unspoken go get us drinks now hung in the air.

It was a side of Dorian that his father brought out.

But at that point, I was suffocating. I’d been isolated too long, made to feel like my purpose was to assist Dorian, that what I wanted and who I was didn’t matter.

Years later, a therapist helped me understand I’d been experiencing many of the symptoms of depression. Perhaps I was depressed, but I believe I was mourning our marriage and the man I fell in love with, because that man… he disappeared.

The sense of being reprimanded clings to me, the sensations of that moment wrapping around me with the full force of reliving a moment with all five senses.

The sharp sting of air conditioning through crisp linen, the lingering pine scent from the polished floors, cleaned earlier in the day in preparation for dinner with Halston, the cloying sense of the walls and ceiling coming in around me, closing me into a self-made prison.

I wanted Dorian to stand up for me, for us. I needed him to tell his father that comment was uncalled for and that our young marriage was strong. I needed his response to soothe my worries that we might be facing the end of a marriage that had just begun.

Yes .

That was the one-word response he gave his father. If I close my eyes, I can hear his gravelly voice.

The same word that kicked off a new phase of life, the word I had uttered when he asked me to marry him, ended our marriage. But it wasn’t just the word. It was the culmination of our relationship. The cold finality. The unspoken agreement between Dorian and his father.

Yes, the prenup is ironclad. Yes, that’s all that matters.

“Caroline, are you okay?”

I flinch from the unexpected pressure on my arm, and he withdraws his hand. He pushes a button, and the garage door rolls down behind us.

Wordlessly, I push forward into the house. It’s been a long time since I’ve thought about that day.

I pull out my phone and tap out a text while walking.

Me:

Halston Moore suffers from dementia.

I could add that this removes him as a person of interest, but there’s no need. Sophia will understand.

The door closes behind me, and I focus on my breathing to clear the negative emotions. The past is the past.

“What did I say?”

His eyes are coated with concern, but the words are cautionary, a reminder that how I answer might place him on the defensive.

“You didn’t say anything.” The lie is automatic. There’s no need to dredge up the past.

He takes my hand and leads me to one of the leather sofas in the great room. It’s a stunning room, and the size exacerbates the chill infiltrating my skin.

Dorian refreshes the hearth, his back to me.

I use the moment to scan the room, cataloging the cameras I’ve already spotted—three discrete units disguised in the canned lighting.

Dorian has always valued his privacy. I expect that any interior security system is employed when he’s not home.

He wouldn’t want someone watching him in his home.

No, his security team is likely limited to using perimeter monitoring when he’s home.

He joins me on the sofa and reaches for my hand.

My gaze falls to where we touch, and I fight the urge to yank my hand away.

“I didn’t always defend you.” He studies me, gauging if he guessed correctly. “I should have. But I was under a lot of pressure. I realize I didn’t handle it well.”

“Please.” The smile across my face feels false, bitter, and sad. “Every photo from back then showed a happy-go-lucky guy. Everybody’s friend. You ate up all the attention.”

“That’s not fair. I smiled for the camera. I played the game.”

“And it paid off.” My heart is heavy, but there’s no point in fighting.

I didn’t play the game well, and it frustrated him.

It’s behind us, and rehashing our actions won’t change the past. “You’re being considered for chief of staff.

” I force a brightness, wiggling my fingers in a jazz hands movement to emphasize the greatness.

“A stepping stone to the White House. That’s amazing. ”

He denied he wanted to follow in his uncle’s footsteps, but clearly, he lied.

“It’s an influential position. A possibility, but it’s not something I’m actively seeking. I’m skeptical. I don’t have the stomach to play the political game.”

“Come on. You don’t get considered for chief of staff without working for it.”

His jaw flexes ever-so-slightly, the shift almost imperceptible.

“I probably shouldn’t admit this to you, given what you do.”

My spine stiffens, but at the same time, my pulse quickens at the prospect of valuable information.

“The only reason I tossed my hat in for consideration is to drum up contracts for Zenith.”

“Won’t you have to step aside from any conflicts of interest if you take a post in the administration?”

“Decades ago, yes. Not now.”

“You mean everyone turns a blind eye?”

“If Congress had an issue with it, they could create laws preventing conflicts of interest.”

“That won’t happen.”

Over the years, my analysis of classified contracts revealed layers of shell companies and international holdings that would take years to untangle.

The kind of structure that sets off every red flag in intelligence circles, all because someone is hiding involvement.

All those politicians? If you passed a law saying they couldn’t serve with conflicts of interest, they’d work around the law, just like they did back when conflicts of interest were frowned upon.

“It’s not a system I created. You understand that, right?”

“Couldn’t you win the contracts without having to enter the political arena? Isn’t that what your sales force is for?”

“Certainly. And, no matter what you are inclined to believe, I didn’t actively pursue the role.

When rumors started, I didn’t dispel them.

Me as chief of staff? It’s an unlikely turn of events.

But it’s good for business. So, I’ve played along.

That’s different than actively pursuing it or wanting it.

” With tenderness, he reaches for my hand and deftly brushes his thumb over my knuckles.

When my gaze lifts to his, he says, “I haven’t been asked and haven’t committed. It’s noise.”

“You tossed your hat in,” I say, repeating his earlier words.

“In a manner of speaking.”

Of course, what he does isn’t my business. It doesn’t affect me. But the intensity of his gaze and the warmth of his hand do.

“If you told me not to do it, I wouldn’t.”

“Why would I tell you not to do it?”

“If it’s not the life you want, I won’t?—”

“I’m not in your life.”

“But I want you to be.”

“I’d never ask you to walk away from something you wanted.”

His hand drops. “Like I made you do? That’s what you’re saying, right?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

He hates that phrase. Any second, he’ll jump on his computer, and I won’t hear from him for hours.

“If I had a do-over, I’d do things differently. I wouldn’t have expected your schedule to conform to mine. That was…” He huffs, the sound a mix of frustration and amusement. “You can close your mouth.”

“I’m shocked. That’s as close to an apology as you’ve ever come.”

His lips curve into a smirk, but he quickly grows somber.

“I don’t know why I was conforming to my father’s expectations. The man’s gone through eight wives. He should’ve been the last person I attempted to emulate.”

“Eight? Is he married now?”

“No. His eighth wife died a couple of years ago.”

“Oh. I missed that.”

“She was about your age.”

“Oh.”

This time, the huff he emits is definitely akin to amusement. “Yeah. I didn’t know her well, as you’d probably expect. She traveled a lot. Went to Greece with a group of friends. She drowned.”

“What?”

“Dad found it embarrassing. He pulled some strings. Didn’t hit the news in the US. No one really cared anyway. My father’s been reclusive for years.”

“I noticed that. Over the years, fewer and fewer photos of him surfaced. The same with you, after the first couple of years from our split.”

“Even when you and I were together, Dad was growing more reclusive.” He slides down on the cushion and rests his head against the back, and, in his position, his head is slightly lower than mine.

“You asked when his dementia started. Looking back, I think the personality change might have been a symptom. Either that or he noticed issues, and he withdrew to avoid observation.”

“And why did you become reclusive?”

One side of his lip rises in a crooked grin. “I wouldn’t say I’m reclusive. I travel a ton. And contrary to what you believe, I didn’t live for the media attention.”

I narrow my eyes and give him a look that calls bullshit, but I’m teasing him.

“Seriously. And straight up?”

“No. Lie to me.”

He smirks. “The only media I’ve ever chased was right after you left. Like I told you, I wanted pics to make you jealous. I staged a few. Hired a PR specialist and everything. Hell, I probably paid to have those photos featured.”

“You did not.”

“I’m not proud of it, but…” He grins.

“Look at you. You are so proud of it.”

We both grin at each other. I hated seeing him strutting around with supermodels, but I had other diversions. I couldn’t really worry about him once I joined the CIA. His grin falters, and he threads his fingers through mine.

“What about you? Any serious relationships?”

“No serious ships,” I say, forcing a smile and shortening the word because it feels lighter, and some part of me doesn’t really want to be having this conversation.

“Why?”

I meet his gaze head-on, reading him, sensing his mood and intention. He wants me to say he’s the reason, but… “You clearly haven’t tried the online dating game.”

I do date. I just haven’t had any luck. My dates range from not finishing my coffee before I excuse myself to suffering through a ho-hum dinner.

“No, I haven’t,” he admits, his cocky attitude coming through his smirk.

“What am I saying? If you created an online profile, you’d need your assistant to manage your account.”

“I’m glad you haven’t found anyone.” He squeezes my fingers, and the sensation tightens my chest cavity.

I search his expression for any sign he’s joking, but his intensity warms me from the inside out, wrapping around my heart.

“I’ve never gotten over you, Caroline. I don’t think I ever will.”

He shifts closer and caresses my cheek. Our breaths slow, and with it, time.

His dark eyes search mine, asking for permission.

I tilt my head, bending to him, granting his request. The movement is the most natural thing in the world.

His lips softly move against mine, a light stroke, testing, teasing.

The uncontrollable hammering of my heart drowns the remote part of my brain begging to push him away, to stop before I lose control.

His long fingers cup my head, positioning me as he prefers. His lips ghost over my face, his kisses lighting long-dormant needs. His groan into the shell of my ear lights through my body, shredding any control.

I slip my tongue into his greedy mouth and am momentarily awed as he seizes control, deepening the connection.

It’s a reckless kiss, but beautiful. Our hands roam over each other as our mouths fuse, desire building layer by layer.

I clutch his shirt, wanting it gone, but settle for reaching below the hem.

He releases the softest sigh when I touch his abdomen and find my way to his chest. The thud of his heart vibrates through my fingers.

My sex clenches, as if waking from a long nap, and the urge to take his hand, to put it on me, grows. Touch me .

He breaks the kiss and rubs his nose over mine, his mouth open, sucking in air.

“Cara, I’m going to take you right here unless you stop me.”