Except I don’t.
I don’t want to be here. I want to be with my son. I want to be with Jules. Even if she’s made it clear Tate is our priority.
I let her go once. And I can’t stop wondering if that was the biggest mistake of my life.
Two years ago, she was miserable. And I let myself believe that leaving was the right thing to do. That I was doing her a favor.
Being married to me wasn’t easy. My father made sure of that.
I think back to the gala. The one that changed everything.
Jules had just started an advanced painting class—the one I begged her to take after her mom passed. She wanted to paint full-time, and I wanted that for her, too. I even reached out to a few galleries in the city, quietly lining up opportunities for when she was ready.
But she was running late that night. Her class had gone over, and when she finally showed up, breathless in a pale blue gown, my father didn’t even look at her.
He looked at her hands.
“You couldn’t have, at the very least, washed the paint from your hands?” he muttered under his breath, his face tight with embarrassment.
Jules curled her fingers inward, as if she could make them disappear. I took her hands in mine, trying to shield her, but the damage was already done.
“You’d do well to remind your wife that image is important in our circle, won’t you, son?”
I wanted to tell him off. To remind him that Jules was the most brilliant, talented person in that entire goddamn room. Instead, I led her away, murmuring some excuse, feeling the weight of his disapproval press down on me.
She didn’t cry.
She just disappeared into the bathroom for half the night, scrubbing at her hands until they were raw. When she came back, she barely touched her food. Just sipped champagne in silence, her lip worried between her teeth, her eyes distant.
I should have done something.
I should have taken her home.
I should have told my father to go to hell.
Instead, I sat there.
Like a goddamn coward.
And now, two years later, I’m still sitting here, drowning in numbers and meetings, pretending I don’t know exactly where I wish I was instead.
I lean back in my chair, rubbing a tired hand over my face, and close my eyes. I should get up. Leave. Drive across town and stop by the coffee shop to see my son. But things with Julesare complicated. And I’m tired of being the reason she feels uncomfortable.
Except she wasn’t uncomfortable a few nights ago.
She wasn’t uncomfortable when she kissed me first, when she let me carry her up the stairs. To my bed. To what used to be our bed.
She didn’t hesitate when my hands mapped out every curve of her body, when I whispered her name against her skin, when we fit together as seamlessly as we always had.
The only time she hesitated was in the morning. When daylight made it impossible to pretend it hadn’t happened. When reality set in, and she put the distance back between us.
I might be a coward, but Jules? She’s a runner.
A sharp knock pulls me from my thoughts.
I open my eyes just as the door swings open wider, revealing Susan. She steps in with a practiced smile, her gaze skimming over me as she closes the door behind her.
“How’s it going?” she asks, casual, like she has any business being here right now.
