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CAROLINE

Beyond the guest bathroom’s picture window, the floodlights cast a warm glow over a delicate blanket that has fallen over the nearby tree limbs.

The soaking tub is positioned in front of the window and sits on heated tile in an open wet room shower.

Thick white towels are piled on a dark wood table, and glass bottles with bath salts, matches, and candles line shelves tucked within the wall.

Weariness nips at my limbs, as does a chill.

I twist the faucet, letting steaming hot water fill the ceramic basin. My brain hasn’t clicked back on entirely, but misgivings seep in all the same.

What did I do?

I did what I wanted.

Or did I?

He’s always possessed an uncanny ability to weaken my walls and reshuffle my priorities.

Why open myself up?

Why risk rupturing old wounds?

At least I cleared his father’s name. The senior Moore is definitely not the one causing issues or playing Prophet. And neither is Dorian.

It might be the Russians. They’re experts at deception, creating doubt and discord. And they’re also the country that benefits the most from the disintegration of the EU and the United States.

Dorian is allowing the world to believe his father is still functioning. Is someone taking advantage of his father’s deteriorating mental capacity? Setting him up? But for what?

I drop my clothes on the floor in a messy pile and slide into the water. I whip my hair into a self-tied bun and rest my head on the back of the tub for a view into a starless sky.

There’s a soft rap on the door.

“Come in.”

The door cracks open, and Dorian peers in.

“The tub in my bathroom is better.”

“I’m sure it is.” The master suite is always the best.

“You should move your things to my bedroom.”

“Is that so?” I smile, but he frowns.

“Why are you bathing before dinner? Do you need to wash yourself of me?”

The unexpected vulnerability catches me off guard.

“I was chilled. And this is quite the setup.” He doesn’t look convinced. “Care to join me?”

His expression shifts, the hard lines around his eyes softening.

For a moment, he looks almost like the man I met so many years ago—less guarded, a hint of surprise in his eyes as if he hadn’t expected the invitation.

The corner of his mouth lifts in a half smile, erasing years of practiced stoicism.

He sets two fluffy white towels on the counter’s edge near the tub and undresses.

“Which end do you want me?”

I slide forward, making room for him. Perhaps it would be best to have him across from me, at a distance, so we could talk while facing each other, but my preference is to rest against his chest.

Water sloshes over the tub as he gets in, but neither of us cares. It’s a wet bathroom, designed for mess.

It takes a minute for us to get settled, for his legs to form to the sides of the tub, and for me to find a comfortable spot in front of him, but once I’m settled in his arms, the confusion from earlier dissipates, replaced by a sense of peace.

He presses his lips to the side of my head and tightens his hold.

“There’s one question that keeps me up at night.” His breath tickles my ear.

“What’s that?” I rest my head against his shoulder, peering up for a profile view of his deep-set eyes and dark, thick eyebrows.

“I gave you everything I could. Everything I had the power to give. But it wasn’t enough. You weren’t happy. What did you need that I didn’t give?”

“Oxygen.”

The answer is painfully honest. I suffocated in his world until I reached a do-or-die juncture.

“Hmm.” His response vibrates from his chest through my spine. “The attention?”

“It wasn’t just that. You expected me to give up everything.

For my days to circle yours, for my purpose to be you, and I know…

you deserve a woman who will give up everything to be with you.

But I wasn’t strong enough.” I’m not strong enough now.

Or am I misspeaking? Is it stronger to endure an unhealthy relationship, or stronger to enact change for a better situation?

“I’d argue the opposite.”

Of course, he would.

His fingers glide along my arm, dip into the water, and cup my breast. I love the ease with which he touches my body. I’ve missed the intimacy between us.

That’s not correct. I’ve missed intimacy, period.

“You were a beacon of strength. Instead of falling in line with my father’s expectations, you walked away. It’s something I’ve never done.”

That catches my attention. “Are you not leading the life you want?”

Of course, he is.

“Look at everything you’ve done. You envisioned Zenith and created it. You’re chairman of the board of Bedrock, a position your father dangled like a carrot. People are floating your name as a presidential contender.”

“I don’t have the patience for politics.”

I turn against him, my smile wide and teasing. “What exactly do you call chief of staff?”

“A limited engagement that would allow me to reset the course of the current administration and ensure defense priorities align with Zenith. Plus, it’s access to the heads of state from around the world.

” He weaves his fingers through mine and submerges our linked fingers below the waterline.

“That’s all it would be. It’s not a lifelong dream of mine. ”

“Contracts?” He’s referring to coveted Department of Defense contracts. “You mentioned earlier about government contracts and conflicts of interest. What exactly would something like that be worth?”

“Over ten years, we’re talking over a trillion dollars.”

“And no one would care about that size of a conflict of interest?”

“Anyone in government possesses personal interest.”

“You mean corruption?”

He lifts our joined hands and playfully nips at my nail. That’s not an answer .

“Am I to take it that selling you on joining me as first lady would be a challenge?”

“I thought you just said you don’t want to be president?” I twist so I can observe his facial expressions and read the truth.

“I don’t.” He sighs. “Is it bad that I’m grateful for my father’s dementia? If he were as sharp as he was in the past, this farce would balloon out of control. He’d already be fundraising, and a strategist would’ve been hired. There’s no doubt I’d be in the primary. Can’t say I’d win, but?—”

“Americans love you. You’re well-spoken, photogenic, and pedigreed.”

“You make me sound like a prize dog.” His lips purse, and his eyes narrow. He squeezes my legs between his, the movement sending a wave of water cascading over the edge. “No, I wouldn’t be a serious candidate unless I promised the right things to the right leaders.”

“The oligarchs?”

“Let’s skip the bashing. But if my father were of sound mind, he’d be making those deals. I’d probably have a full-time campaign advisor camped out in a DC hotel.”

“Why didn’t your father ever run for president?”

“Eight wives? Documented pattern of adultery. For most of his life, he assumed he’d be too scandal-prone.

Left politics to his brother. By the time he realized Americans no longer cared about sex scandals, he considered himself too old and he’d pissed off too many.

Plus, he’d gone too long without a boss. ”

“The president doesn’t have a boss.”

“The sitting president has a list of people he owes. Depending on what those people have on him, that can be worse than a boss.”

“You’ve thought a lot about this.”

“Not really. My priority has been Zenith. Until you showed up at my gate.”

He swirls the water, and silence descends. He absentmindedly cups my breast again and brushes his thumb back and forth across my nipple. My muscles relax, and I rest my head on his shoulder once more. His heart thuds against my back, the vibration muted but recognizable and soothing.

“Oxygen, huh?” It’s a matter-of-fact statement. “For years, I thought you left because I pushed for children.”

“I can see why you would assume that. It’s the only disagreement I stood firm on. Other than that one thing, I dressed as directed, filled my calendar as requested, and smiled at dinners and events.”

“I thought you liked the access to designers.”

“I did. At first. And I appreciated the gowns for events. But you were absent, and…I became this prop. A tool for a game I wasn’t privy to. And I failed at it. I never met your expectations.”

“That’s not true.”

“I definitely never met your father’s. He wanted you to divorce me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I overheard you talking.”

“So you left. Rather than talk to me, you said you weren’t happy, and you left?”

The words strung together haul a load of anger, but his tone is more of a person who is slowly putting together all the pieces of a puzzle.

“For the record, I wanted children—one day. But we weren’t happy. Children aren’t the solution to an unhealthy marriage.”

“We didn’t have a bad marriage.”

At that, I sit up so I can give him my aghast expression. “Come on now.”

He’s arguing in that head of his. I can see it.

“My parents, your dad, they all agreed our marriage was a mistake. You were distant. If you spoke to me, it almost always led to a fight. Mostly, you’d just look at me, silent, with god knows what going on in that head of yours.

And then we’d walk out into public view, and you’d smile and pull me close and morph into this happy-go-lucky guy, and it was maddening.

If I went out alone and found myself chased by photographers…

you minimized my fear. Told me I wasn’t handling it right.

They wouldn’t hurt me if I just smiled. That I was being silly.

” God, I hate that word. A man is never silly. Only a woman.

“Why didn’t you give me a choice?”

“Like what? Move to a small town out of the public eye?”

“If that’s what it took.” He says it like it’s so simple. Like any of that was on the table. “You didn’t give me a chance. You didn’t talk to me.”

He’s right, sort of. I did, but I didn’t.

“I lacked the confidence. I possessed enough self-awareness to recognize I wasn’t in a healthy place, but not enough to believe you would choose me, that you would even hear me.

I didn’t believe it mattered to you.” And for that matter, I still don’t.

He wouldn’t have walked away from his father, and it would have been selfish to ask him to.

“And when I didn’t chase after you, I confirmed your beliefs.”

It’s not an apology, but he sounds apologetic.

“It was for the best.” The automatic words flow unhindered.

He rests his chin against the side of my head. “You leaving was the worst thing to happen in my life.”

My mouth forms an O , but before a thought coalesces, he’s up, sending a tidal wave of water over the edge of the tub. He wraps a towel around his waist and then holds one for me.

The water temperature has cooled, and my skin is pruned, so I concur…it’s time.

“Is there any chance I can convince you to snuggle with me?”

“Snuggle?” I can’t block the incredulous smile. “Who are you, and what did you do to the business titan I married?”

Water droplets glide down his chest, and my gaze follows their trail down his fit abdomen to his towel. His work ethic clearly still extends from the office to the gym.

He smirks with cocky awareness.

“Is that a yes or a no?” he asks.

“Where do you want to snuggle?”

“My bed.”

I half-laugh but quickly realize he’s serious.

“Best view in the house. A fireplace.”

There’s a knowing look in his eye. When we first started dating, our favorite days were lazy Sundays. It’s not Sunday, it’s Friday, but it’s the state of mind, not the day of the week.

“All right,” I say. “Lead the way.”

He doesn’t lead, though. Instead, he slows his steps to match mine, and we walk side by side into his lair.

He tosses throw pillows to the floor and pulls back the luxurious comforter, gesturing for me to climb into his bed. I step forward, but he grips my towel.

“You don’t need this.”

I roll my eyes, but his comment is 100 percent expected. I let the towel drop and climb onto the bed. He drops his towel and settles beside me, pulling the comforter over both of us and me into his side.

“You’re more confident now.” His statement is matter-of-fact, void of judgment. “Why? Or should I ask who?”

“Langley.” The word hangs between us. The CIA changed me in ways I still can’t fully explain to civilians—even him.

Gone is the na?ve twenty-two-year-old who felt overwhelmed by his world.

Intelligence work teaches you to see past the superficial power plays, to recognize that even billionaires are just people with their own vulnerabilities and tells.

I settle down on a pillow, facing him, and he turns on his side, mirroring my position.

“What are you thinking?” I ask.

“You really want to know?”

“It drives me crazy when you don’t tell me.” The argument is an echo of our past, but it’s different, because now I’m telling him exactly how I feel.

“All right. I’m wondering what I’m going to have to do to win you back. Because I want you back.”

“I'm not a possession.”

“Agreed. You’re the love of my life. How do I fix us?”

The irony isn’t lost on me. Here’s a man who can buy politicians and redirect satellites with a phone call, asking me how to fix something money can’t solve.

Seven years ago, this vulnerability from him would have melted my resolve.

Now, I recognize it as either genuine growth or excellent artifice. The trouble is, both look the same.

It doesn’t matter. You can’t fix a relationship that’s seven years stale.

And I’m smart enough to know that for a man like Dorian, a man who has gotten literally everything he’s ever wanted and can buy anything he wants, he wants me now because I’m the one thing he didn’t get to keep.

If I stayed, he’d fall right back into the routine where I ranked last. Maybe not at first, but eventually.

I open my mouth to tell him we’ve run our course, but he stops me with his lips. And soon, he does what he’s always excelled at. He eradicates all thought.