Tristan's Reckoning

The penthouse was a problem.I had been prepared, on the drive in from Teterboro, for something flashy. Something cold and steel and obvious. Something that screamed fourteenbilliondollar net worth in the way Tristan's apartment had screamed sixfigure salary, please notice — chrome fixtures, leather everything, a bar cart that nobody ever used.Damien's penthouse was none of those things.Damien's penthouse was beautiful.It occupied the entire top floor of a prewar building on the Upper East Side, and the elevator opened directly into the foyer — no hallway, no door, just a quiet ding and then the rest of my life laid out in front of me. Pale wood floors. Tall windows. Soft, pooling lamplight. A wall of bookshelves on the right that climbed all the way to the ceiling. A grand piano on the left, covered in a heavy black cloth, sitting in the corner like a sleeping animal nobody was supposed to wake.There were no cameras blinking. There were no televisions playing. There was, somewher

My Husband

The ballroom air changed the second we stepped back inside. It was the same music, same champagne, same wintergarden lighting, but the room felt heavier. Like everyone had taken one collective breath and decided not to let it go. Damien’s hand settled at the small of my back. Not a showy gesture. Not for the cameras. It was a warning. Stay close. Across the room, Marcus Sterling lifted his glass again. He smiled like a man who had already counted the money from our downfall. Next to him, a younger man in a tootight suit held up a phone, angled just enough to catch us in frame. Recording, I whispered. I know, Damien said. His voice was calm, but his jaw tightened. He guided me toward the far side of the room, away from the main crowd and the line of sight to Sterling’s little assistant. I want to leave, I said. We can’t. Not yet. That was the difference between us. I wanted an exit. He wanted control of the room. Elena appeared again before we made it ten feet. She moved

Home

We did not speak on the drive home.Greg drove slow through the rain, the wipers slapping a steady rhythm against the windshield. The city blurred past outside, streaks of red and gold and white. Damien did not let go of my hand. Not once. For twenty two minutes all the way back to the Upper East Side he just sat there in the dark, his fingers laced through mine, and said nothing at all.It was not an awkward silence. It was not a heavy silence. It was the quiet of two people who had just spent three years pretending to be other people, and had finally stopped. I did not spend the whole drive waiting for him to say something stupid. I did not spend it waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the first time in my entire life I just sat there. And I breathed.I did not even realize I was doing it until we pulled up to the front door of the building. I looked down at our hands, still linked together on the leather seat between us, and realized I had not thought about Tristan once in the e

All Chapters of Accidental Vows:The Billionaire's Perfect Mistake: Chapter 11 - Chapter 13

Tristan's Reckoning

My Husband

Home