Page 14 of I Wish I Would’ve Warned You (Forbidden Wishes #3)

EMILY

I wake to a headache blooming behind my eyes, the kind that feels stitched into my skull.

The room is too bright, and everything tastes like stale sugar and regret.

My mom is sitting on the edge of my bed, brushing hair away from my face.

“Hey, sweetie,” she whispers. “You okay?”

I try to nod, but even that takes effort.

“Taylor said you had a little too much to drink. That’s my girl, getting her tolerance started early.” She lifts a glass of water to my lips. “Sip slowly.”

I do. The water is cold and blissfully clean. It cuts through the fuzz in my head like a knife.

“Cole set up everything on the nightstand,” she adds. “He got you into bed, gave you Tylenol, made you drink a bottle of water first. I think he even swapped out the ice packs.”

I blink. “Wait—he... took care of me?”

“Well, I was already asleep,” she says, amused. “And Cole’s good under pressure. He didn’t say much. Just showed up, scooped you into his arms, and disappeared upstairs.”

Her words sink in slowly, like syrup through cotton.

“Anyway,” she continues, “you should know your night wasn’t a total disaster. You looked amazing.” She beams. “I wish I had gone to more parties before I got pregnant. College would’ve been wild.”

I close my eyes and beg my body to fall asleep long enough to dodge this rerun of the sixteen-and-pregnant monologue I’ve heard a dozen times.

When I open them next, she’s gone.

The sun has already started its descent when I drag myself to the shower.

The hot water helps. So does the clean air.

I dress slowly—jeans, a soft T-shirt—and head downstairs in search of food or a pulse of life.

The house is too quiet. Every room feels like it’s holding its breath.

As I wander down the hall, I catch the scent of old cologne and something sterile—leather, maybe.

Aidan’s office door is slightly ajar.

I shouldn’t, but I push it open anyway.

The first thing I notice is how perfect everything is. Not in a tidy or lived-in way—more like someone staged it for a press shoot. The books are alphabetized. The magazines lined up like soldiers. A single pen rests on a leather blotter like it’s afraid to be used.

And the photos...

They’re everywhere. Aidan shaking hands with senators. At press events. Flanked by celebrities, athletes, CEOs.

But Cole?

Two photos.

Both decades old.

One shows Aidan holding a toddler on a beach—probably for a Christmas card. The other’s so tightly cropped, Cole’s face is half lost in the frame.

I move closer.

I’ve heard Aidan’s podcast before. Years ago, I used to cling to it like gospel.

Back when we were far more destitute and bouncing between the worst motels, I’d play episodes to fall asleep.

His voice felt like stability. His advice—stories about fatherhood, forgiveness, healing—felt like something I could believe in.

Until it started to hurt.

Because whatever version of fatherhood he was selling? I’d never have it.

So I stopped listening.

But now, even after just a few days in this house, I’m starting to wonder if he ever had it either.

Because whatever he claimed to have with Cole back then?

I don’t feel it now.

They barely speak. They never laugh. Cole doesn’t flinch when Aidan walks into a room. It’s not hate. It’s distance. Like the bond Aidan sold to the world doesn’t exist anymore—if it ever did.

A soft knock.

I spin to see the housekeeper in the doorway, her expression polite but firm.

“I’m sorry, miss. Mr. Dawson doesn’t allow guests in his office without permission.”

“I got turned around,” I lie. “Was looking for the kitchen.”

“It’s just down the hall.” She pauses. “Let me know if you’d like me to walk you there.”

“No need,” I say quickly, already moving.

I make it halfway before I spot Cole through the front windows—hoodie on, keys spinning in one hand as he slips out the front door.

No goodbye. No explanation.

And maybe I shouldn’t care.

But my feet move before my brain decides anything.

I grab my mom’s keys from the hook and trail him, keeping just far enough behind.

He weaves through quiet roads and storefronts until he pulls into a brick strip mall.

Hollow & Ink , the sign reads.

He disappears inside.

I park and wait a while before following.

Inside, the shop hums with low music and the hiss of tattoo machines. Amber light glows overhead, casting a soft sheen over black walls, framed art, and gold-detailed mirrors.

It smells like antiseptic, ink, and something faintly smoky.

Cole’s at the back, gloved up, hunched over a woman’s back. His focus is absolute. The design—an intricate geometric piece—curls down her spine in bold, precise lines.

He doesn’t see me yet.

The girl glances over her shoulder. “So… are you seeing anyone?”

“No.”

“You should let me take you out.”

“I don’t date clients.”

“Don’t,” she echoes, “or won’t?”

“Both.”

She giggles. “You’re too hot to be single.”

Cole doesn’t answer. Just peels off his gloves and tosses them in the bin.

That’s when he sees me.

No surprise. No alarm. Just... knowing.

Like he expected me.

“Emily,” he says, low and amused. “Are you stalking me?”

“Yes.”

He walks toward me, slow and easy. “Why?”

“I needed to get out of the house.”

“There’s plenty to do back there.”

“Unless you think I came here because I didn’t want to be alone.”

His eyes hold mine. “Did you?”

I don’t answer.

But I don’t look away, either.

“I should probably go,” I say, suddenly aware of how long I’ve been standing here.

He glances at the girl still adjusting her shirt. Then steps closer.

“I’ve got another client in twenty minutes,” he says. “But I’ll walk you out.”

I nod, trying not to let my pulse show on my face.

He leads me through a side hallway that smells like old cedar and faint smoke. The air feels heavier here, like the walls are keeping secrets.

“Nice place,” I murmur.

He shrugs. “Pays for the next stage of my life.”

“Is it weird? People offering up their bodies like blank canvas?”

“Not weird,” he says, pushing the door open. “Most of them just want something permanent when everything else feels temporary.”

Outside, the sun is nearly gone. The air is crisp. His car waits nearby, but he doesn’t move toward it. Just lingers beside me, hands in the front pocket of his hoodie.

“You didn’t answer me earlier.”

“About?”

“Why you stepped in last night.”

“I told you.”

“You said you were jealous.”

“That’s an answer.”

I smile softly. “It’s a deflection.”

“Would it be so bad if I was?”

“No,” I say. Then, quieter: “I think I liked it.”

His gaze dips to my mouth, then back up.

“I should go,” I say again. But I don’t move.

“You keep saying that,” he murmurs.

Then he steps back, just slightly, letting the tension fold back between us.

“I’ll see you back at the house,” he says.

I nod.

But as I walk to the car, it feels less like I escaped something... and more like I stepped into something I’m nowhere near ready for.