What Remains of Us

Six years after our divorce, I ran into Owen Hughes again—at a police station.

I was there to pick up my father's belongings. He was the newly appointed young sheriff.

Just as everyone was toasting his new marriage, our eyes met across the room. Neither of us spoke.

Until I turned to leave, and his voice came low behind me:

"Aubrey—are you still hate me?"

I shook my head.

He'd gone from bodyguard to undercover hero. I'd gone from heiress to nobody with a new name and a quiet life.

I think I was mad. Once.

But only love breeds hate.

And six years later? I don't love him anymore.

A young officer didn't catch the tension. "What're you here for? I can help you with—"

I held up the paperwork and cut him off. "Already handled it."

And walked straight out.

Funny thing—we'd met here twice. Second time was today, the reunion.

First time was the day my father got arrested.

Owen caught my sleeve, made me stop.

"You doing okay?"

Such a basic, predictable line.

I looked at the new wedding band on his finger and gave him the same basic, predictable answer.

"I'm doing fine."

He pulled his hand back like my gaze had burned him.

Jordan's car was waiting at the curb. I turned and said goodbye to Owen:

"My husband's here."

His voice cracked when he answered. "...Okay. Goodbye."

I didn't want a goodbye.

The car pulled away. He stayed rooted where he stood.

Until that tall, rigid figure finally disappeared from the rearview mirror.

"Aubrey, are you using me to dodge a bullet?" Jordan's face was all curiosity. "That cop had his eyes glued to you. But I swear—he looks familiar."

I smoothed out the crumpled papers in my lap. "Owen Hughes."

Jordan whipped his head toward me, nearly swerving. "Owen Hughes? The Owen Hughes? That legendary hero?"

His reaction was so over the top I had to remind him: "It's him. Eyes on the road."

He kept rambling. "No wonder he's sheriff so young. I remember now—he went undercover for a decade, took down a whole mafia family, made his name off that. The don was Rhett... something."

"Patterson."

"Yeah, Patterson! That's it—"

Then it hit him. I have the same last name.

Jordan froze mid-sentence.

I answered the question he couldn't bring himself to ask, my voice perfectly calm:

"Yeah. That was my dad."

The don of the Patterson family. Put away by Owen's own hands.

Jordan scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "Sorry, Aubrey. Didn't mean to bring up old wounds."

Old wounds don't hurt anymore. I could've been telling someone else's story.

The silence in the car stretched thin.

Jordan glanced at the papers in my hands, desperate for an escape. "So—what'd you actually go to the station for?"

My fingers traced over the bold word stamped across the page. Deceased.

"To pick up... my father's things."

He died two weeks ago. Collapsed in his cell coughing blood. Stage four stomach cancer. They let him out for medical treatment, but he didn't last three months.

Dad never blamed me. Even when he turned down every single visitation request I made over those six years. I knew why. Not because I brought Owen into the family. But because he didn't want me carrying the weight of being a convict's daughter for the rest of my life.

Thinking about him—I couldn't help it. The grief pressed in.

To keep myself from spiraling, I turned to Jordan, who clearly had something on his tongue but didn't know how to say it.

"Want to hear my story?"

The story of a girl who was once the princess of the city's biggest mafia. And also the ex-wife of the man who brought it down.

Two halves that shouldn't fit. But they're both mine.