Page 59 of The Wrong Husband (The Davenports #6)

Phoenix

“Mom?”

Oh no, I thought I’d have more time before I met her.

When I catch sight of her, for a heartbeat, I’m a child again.

The girl who fell asleep to her mother’s voice reading bedtime stories. The ten-year-old who got her first period and was met with pads, a hot water bottle, and gentle reassurance.

“Phe, honey, there you are!”

A former model, she carries herself with the same grace and elegance she’s always been known for.

Growing up, her poise only magnified my sense of awkwardness—my stubborn curls, my bookishness, my obsession with all things nerdy.

She never judged, but I always felt like I didn’t quite match her shine.

The old insecurities surge up, clawing at my chest.

I press my palm to my sternum and tap it three times. Breathe in. Breathe out. Some of the tension eases.

Connor is watching me closely. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I take another breath and pull myself together.

“Oh sweetheart, you look radiant!” She folds me into her arms. I’m engulfed in Chanel No. 5. That scent is her—more than her voice, her clothes, even her smile. That’s what always lingered, long after she left a room.

And just like that, the dread I’ve carried—about this moment, this conversation—loosens its grip. I forget the phone calls I ignored. The birthdays I skipped. The quiet ache of absence. I forget that I rehearsed how to tell her about the elopement. Thanks to James, she already knows.

So, I let myself sink into the hug. “I missed you, Mom.” And when I whisper, “I’m sorry I didn’t call to tell you I was eloping,” I mean every word.

"Well then, it wouldn’t be eloping if you did." She kisses my cheek.

I hear the disappointment in her voice, though she’s trying to hide it.

"I didn’t mean to hurt you; things took on a life of their own, and?—"

"It felt easier to go with it.” She nods. “It’s easier to make sense after the fact, rather than when you’re in the midst of emotional turmoil.”

I step back and survey her features. I expected her to be upset that I didn’t inform her in advance of the wedding, but she doesn’t seem angry. A little sad maybe, but not as overcome as I expected her to be.

And she understands why I prefer to ride out events, rather than try to confront them.

She and I are more similar than I realized.

I swallow. She’d have understood what happened with Drew.

I should have told her. I shouldn’t have resented her all these years and allowed my own insecurities to drive a wedge between us.

"Honey, we are so proud of you," my father says gently.

"Dad." I throw myself in his arms and am rewarded by that same bear hug that enchanted me growing up. Every time I was upset, or fell down and hurt myself, my father was there to comfort me.

"I’ve missed you, Dad." I swallow back my tears. I wonder if I’ve been hiding from my parents because of my insecurities.

"We’re so happy you found your life partner." My dad rubs soothing circles over my back.

"I’m sorry I didn’t tell you in advance."

"I’d have been more upset if Arthur”—my mother nods toward him—“hadn’t asked us to dinner to celebrate your wedding.”

"I’m glad you’re here," I say sincerely. "I should have called you anyway, to let you know about the wedding."

"You should have." My mother blinks rapidly. "I’m your mom. The woman who brought you up and?—"

"Now, Lana, we spoke about this." My father squeezes her shoulder.

To my surprise, my mother firms her lips. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so emotional." She pulls a handkerchief from her handbag and dabs under her eyes.

I wring my hands in distress. It’s typical that my mother makes this about herself, but perhaps, not having seen her in almost three years has given me some perspective. Now I realize, she's upset.

"I’d feel the same if I were in your shoes," I murmur.

She blinks, then looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. "I didn’t mean to barge in today and be a drama queen."

"I don’t think you could have stopped yourself," I say wryly.

Her lips twitch, and I’m sure she’s trying to stop herself from smiling.

Connor drapes his arm around my shoulders. I flinch—not because I don’t want his touch, but because it catches me off guard. Then the warmth of him seeps into me. That solid, unyielding weight grounding me. For the first time today, I feel like I’m not standing alone.

He extends his hand. “Mrs. Hamilton.”

My mother smiles as she takes it. Elegant as ever, composed as always.

Then he turns to my father. “Mr. Hamilton.”

My father grips his hand, eyes steady. “So, you’re the man my daughter chose.” A beat. “I trust you’ll take good care of her.”

“She’s everything to me,” Connor says quietly. “I’d burn the world down before I let anything touch her. She’ll never be alone again.”

The muscle in my father’s jaw softens. His stance shifts, shoulders easing a fraction. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Connor inclines his head, that unshakable confidence in him radiating like heat.

“James speaks highly of you,” my mother says, her voice gentle now. “Anyone James trusts… I trust.”

Of course, she does. James is her golden boy.

The first of us they adopted. The one she’s leaned on through every family crisis.

She’s always looked to him—his loyalty, his steadiness.

And he’s always given it to her. Maybe, I’ve resented that closeness more than I ever admitted.

That quiet bond she shares with my brothers, her sons, has always left me just outside the circle. Watching. Wanting.

She glances my way, and something in my eyes must give me away. She hastens to add, "Of course, even if James didn't know you, we wouldn't have been too worried. Phoenix has always had good head on her shoulders. I always knew she'd choose someone worthy of her."

For a moment, I'm struck speechless. Finally, I choke out, "Thanks, Mom."

OMG! Her words have scrambled my brain. I'm not sure how to process what she just said. It's the confirmation I've always wanted from her, and… I don't want to cry, but I can feel the tears building.

Connor’s lips brush my temple, jarring me from the spiral of old wounds.

“Mind if I steal my wife for a moment?” he asks.

His voice is low, intimate. Like he’s already mine in every way that counts.

And just like that, I can breathe again.

Without waiting for their agreement, he pulls me aside, out of earshot of my parents.

He studies my face, gaze sweeping over every inch like he’s trying to read beneath the surface. “ You okay?” he asks, his voice low, tender.

I nod.

But the flicker of concern in his eyes says he doesn’t buy it.

“I didn’t know Arthur invited them,” he murmurs. “If I had, I’d have made sure he ran it past you first.”

“It’s okay,” I whisper. My throat’s too tight for more.

“It’s not.” His jaw tightens. That protective edge I’ve come to rely on flashes in his eyes. “Unfortunately, that’s Arthur. He’s obsessed with this idea of one big happy family. If I tell him not to?—”

“Don’t.” I lay a hand on his forearm, grounding him. “He’s a man staring down time. All he wants is to believe he’s brought his family together. Let him have that comfort. I don’t want to take it away from him.”

He holds my gaze, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s weighing whether to push the point. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” I say, firmer this time. “I needed to talk to my parents eventually. There was no point putting it off. I'm glad they're here. I've missed them.”

He lifts a hand to my cheek, his palm warm and steady. “You’re extraordinary, Phe. Strong. Resilient. The strongest woman I’ve ever known.”

The words hit deeply. I lean in and brush a kiss against his cheek, the roughness of his stubble a sudden comfort. He feels like my anchor in a world that keeps shifting under my feet.

“Thanks,” I murmur. Then, softer, “Would it be okay if I spoke to my mother alone?”

“Of course.”

He leans in and kisses me hard—firm, possessive, promising everything without a single word—then steps back.

His absence is immediate. Like a shadow being ripped away. I already miss the weight of his presence beside me. I almost call out to him but stop myself. I need to do this. Alone.

I’ve handled worse, haven’t I? Before him, I faced the dark on my own. I can do it again. I have to.

I square my shoulders and turn to my mother. “Mom, can we talk? Somewhere private.”

My mom nods right away. "I would love that."

Imelda comes forward. "Why don’t I show you to our conservatory?”

"I know you’re not happy to see me—" my mother begins, but I hold up my hand.

"Mom, don’t. I’m surprised to see you, but that doesn’t mean I’m not happy."

She looks into my face. "You don’t seem happy," she finally says.

I throw up my hands. "It’s taking me a minute to get used to all the events of the past week, okay?

We didn’t plan to elope; it just happened.

And then, having my family descend on me when I haven’t seen you and Dad in years is…

It’s just emotional, is all." Tears press in on my eyeballs, and I try to swallow them down.

"Oh, sweetie." My mum walks over to the chaise I’m sitting on and seats herself next to me. "Marriage is a big step. It’s a big change in your life. Of course, you’re feeling out of sorts."

"Thanks." I take a tissue from the box she offers me and crumple it in my hand. "I… I didn’t expect to see you," I finally say.

She wrings her fingers, and I realize, she’s not as composed as she’s projecting herself to be.

"When you left home, we didn’t part on the best of terms. I wanted a daughter who was more like me. I would have loved for you to follow a career in the arts, or something in fashion, perhaps.”

“Instead, you got me.” I smile sadly. “I never cared about makeup, or modelling, or dresses.”

“And really, that was fine. I think what I found difficult to cope with was how independent you were. You were your own person. You knew what you wanted. And I felt… Like you didn’t need me.”