Page 1 of The Temptation of Truth

PROLOGUE

Sometimes, they die because we love them too much.

Sometimes, they bloom because we finally let them breathe.

I usedto be someone else.

Someone loud with wonder and hope. Someone with big plans and a restless need to see the world.

I used to dream of greenhouses and poetry and cities I couldn’t pronounce. I used to write until my mind was calm and my hands ached for relief. I used to fear nothing.

Not losing people. Not losing myself.

Not never being found.

Then came grief, and with it silence. A yawning sea of darkness so wide and deep and heavy that it nearly swallowed me whole. It blotted out the sunlight. It cloaked everything in despair, sticky and thick, making movement difficult. Making breathing difficult.

When the dreams started to fade, I let them. I didn’t reach for them. I didn’t try to save them. I didn’t try to save myself. I was content to drown in the darkness. To let it suffocate me.

And then...

Then cameher.

I didn’t mean to fall for her. I didn’t mean to forget the ring or the promises I made while I was still too numb to understand them. I didn’t mean to ache at the sound of her laughter, or yearn for the softness of her lips, or memorize the soft curve of her waist like it was mine to keep. Like it was made just so my hand had a place to rest.

I didn’t mean for the dreams to return. I didn’t mean for them to include her.

I didn’t mean for any of it to happen, but it did.

And somewhere in that mess—somewhere amidst the stolen glances, the broken boundaries, and the overwhelming temptation of truth—I started to bloom again.

Not because she loved me.

Not even because she saw me.

Because I dared to grow toward the light.

I dared to breathe.

And it changed everything.

1

AURORA

“I can tell you’re angry.”

Brady sighs through his nose, his nostrils flaring with the action. He’s wearing sunglasses, but the designer frames don’t hide the harsh slant of his eyebrows or the tightness in his jaw. He doesn’t respond, so I tear my eyes from the side of his face and look back out the window.

“I’m sorry.” My voice is lower this time, less confident, but he hears me and sighs louder. “She said this could take time.”

He still says nothing.

I lower my gaze to my ring finger and run my thumb over the silver band. The skin around it is puffy and an angry red color. The ring fit when he proposed, but it’s too small now. I need to get it resized, but I keep forgetting. I’m in the garden every day, so I don’t wear jewelry when I’m at home. It’s not until we go out that I remember how uncomfortable it is to wear, and we don’t go out often.

Eighteen months.

We’ve been married only eighteen months, but he acts like it’s a sprint toward some constantly moving finish line. It’s nothing new, though. He’s always been like this. By the fifthdate, he was talking about engagement. Once he’d bought the diamond, he was planning the wedding. Now it’s all about the happy family dynamic. House, check. Housewife, check. Babies? Working on it.