Page 45 of I Wish I Would’ve Warned You (Forbidden Wishes #3)

EMILY

T he night starts off pretending to be normal.

Thanksgiving dinner, hosted not at a home but in the middle of a sprawling bookstore in Tribeca—one of those glossy, curated spaces with floor-to-ceiling shelves, a skylight dome, and string lights laced through rafters.

The long harvest table runs down the center of the poetry section, absurdly elegant for a space meant for quiet readers.

But this isn’t a quiet night.

Aidan’s team has rebranded the holiday as a “Thankful Reflections Book Launch Experience.” There’s a printed menu.

Branded wine glasses. Organic turkey with truffle stuffing.

Half the guests are industry contacts, the other half are press—and every last one of them is here to see a man pretend he’s someone he’s not.

I didn’t want to come. I told myself I wouldn’t.

But Justin’s a fan—a real fan—and asked me, just once, to come with him. To let him get a book signed. I said yes. I thought I could slip in, smile politely, get through one drink and leave.

Instead, I ended up two seats from my mother, three seats from Aidan, and directly across from Cole.

He hasn’t looked at me once since I sat down. Not even when Justin reached for my hand beneath the table. Not even when Aidan stood up, clinked his glass, and began to read.

It starts like this:

“Children don’t need perfect fathers. They need honest ones. My son, Cole, once told me that my strength was the compass that guided him through the worst moments of his life. That he hoped one day to be half the man I was.”

—Chapter 6, Father First, Always

I hear the breath catch in Cole’s throat before I see his jaw tighten.

Then comes the first question.

A voice rises from the end of the table, firm and sharp. A reporter.

“Mr. Dawson,” she says, “if you pride yourself on family values, why haven’t you ever publicly addressed the DUI your son received a few years ago?”

The entire table stiffens. Even the silverware seems to pause.

Aidan blinks. Stunned. But only for a second.

He smiles. “We all make mistakes. What matters is how we learn from them. I believe in redemption and moving forward.”

The reporter doesn’t relent. “So why didn’t you include that in any of your books?” she asks. “Especially since that would imply Cole was drinking underage. Doesn’t that clash with the values you sell to your readers?”

My eyes flick to Cole. He’s not flinching. He’s watching.

He looks like he’s expecting an answer. Maybe even hoping for one.

But Aidan, ever the performer, keeps his smile. “I focus on what will help others. Not every personal detail needs to be published to make an impact.”

He raises his glass. A signal to move on. And the room begins to shift again.

But Cole doesn’t.

He stands slowly and walks out without a word.

I wait five seconds, then excuse myself and follow.

He’s halfway down the hall, pacing. I catch up.

“Cole,” I say.

He spins. “Why are you following me?”

“Because I?—”

“We’re not together anymore. Why bother?”

“Because I’ll always love you.”

He laughs bitterly. “Okay. Go put that in one of your poems. I don’t want to hear that right now.”

“Cole, stop.”

“No, you fucking stop. You’re here, I can’t have you, can’t talk to you, and I’m tired.”

“You act like we were in a long-term relationship,” I hiss. “I barely know you.”

“Didn’t stop you from fucking me.”

“Seriously?”

“Walk away from me, Emily.”

“Or what?”

We glare at each other, tension stretched thin. Then suddenly, it breaks.

We collide in a kiss—angry, hungry, desperate. Hands gripping, mouths crushed, nothing soft or sweet. Just pain and want and three years of ache.

“I miss you,” he breathes.

“I never stopped loving you,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

Then: the unmistakable sound of glass clinking. Crates shifting. Murmurs.

We pull apart.

Turn.

People from the event are standing just outside the open doorway. Phones out. Jaw dropped. Recording.

“You’re sleeping with your stepsister?” someone says.

“So Aidan Dawson covered up a DUI and incest?” another voice whispers.

The murmurs grow louder. Buzzing. Snapping photos. Filming.

I let go of Cole’s hand.

But he grabs it right back and pulls me down the hall, away from the crowd.

As we disappear around the corner, I hear one final question—loud and cutting like a knife through the noise:

“Mr. Dawson! How long has your son been screwing his stepsister? Is that your idea of family values?”