Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Loren
At first, no one speaks.
The room is so quiet, I count the seconds ticking on the grandfather clock. When I get to thirty, Bridger starts to laugh. Loud and deep. The guttural roll echoes off the marble, and a shiver runs up my spine. Still, Margaret holds my gaze.
She isn’t kidding. She waits for silence again, then she says, “You’ll get over this infatuation.”
“The hell we will,” Bridger mutters, shaking his head. “Wow, Mom. Wow. Just when I thought I’d seen it all. This is some next-level delusion right here.”
“I assure you, I am quite lucid.”
Her eyes skid to me, a quick reminder that she knows everything about my dad. The diagnosis that could very well come for me someday.
I thought I didn’t want to know. I’d convinced myself that living for the moment was the right choice. My strongest defense. Now I’m more determined than ever to gather whatever information I can. To take control of my future in whatever ways I can.
I won’t turn my life over to anyone.
Least of all Margaret Adams.
“You’ll just have to trust me, son,” she says. Her hand goes to her bag, and she clutches it to her side. “This is for the best. I know firsthand.”
“Is this about Dad?” he grits out. “Some kind of absurd reaction to him bailing on us two decades ago?”
Her lips tighten into a line. “Love is an illusion,” she says. “A shiny object. Bright. Temporary. What’s real—what truly lasts—is legacy.”
“You’re not delivering a speech in the boardroom,” Bridger huffs. “You aren’t a trustee right now. You’re my mother.”
“Yes, and as your mother, I can tell you’re no longer motivated by what’s best for the family. Or for our business. Your choices will always be contingent on making her happy.”
Bridger stiffens. “I have no legacy without Loren.”
“That’s simply not true,” Margaret says. “And the sooner we nip this in the bud, the less permanent damage will be done. That’s why you must cut ties now, before either of you gets too deeply attached.”
Too late, I think.
“I don’t believe this,” he says, in a hiss sharp enough to draw blood. “You want us to get divorced.”
Margaret flinches. “An annulment should be simple enough to procure. You two have been married for such a short period of time, after all. And should you encounter any problems, of course our lawyers will step in to assist.”
So. Trying to convince Margaret our relationship was real was the wrong strategy from the beginning. What she wanted all along was a true marriage of convenience. Not something genuine.
Not me.
Hot tears bubble behind my eyes, and the blood in my veins might as well be ice water.
“What happens if we don’t comply?” Bridger snarls.
“You will.” She fishes for a tissue in the pocket of her blazer.
“Otherwise, I’ll be forced to present evidence to the board that proves your marriage is a farce.
” She dabs her nose. “Then control of the trust will revert to me. No more donations to Stony Peak High. Your school district. University scholarships. Charitable contributions. Research grants.” She pauses, her focus snapping to me. “Havenwood.”
I flinch, just barely, but still. Her eyes narrow. She caught the movement. I’m the weak link in this chain, and I gave myself away. My dad’s security is the one thing I won’t risk. Not even for my own happiness.
“Please.” She returns the tissue to her pocket. “Don’t force my hand.”
A low sound rumbles in the back of Bridger’s throat. “You just stood there and admitted our marriage is legitimate,” he spits out. “You have no evidence.”
“There’s where you’re wrong, son.” She digs in her designer bag and retrieves a crumpled-up paper napkin.
From Fig & Apple.
My heart drops to my feet.
“Operation Fool Margaret?” She shakes her head. “Really, Bridger. So sloppy.” She tugs at the edges to smooth out the wrinkles, but there’s no need. I know well enough what’s scrawled across those folds.
“Where did you get that?” Bridger lunges for the napkin, but she withdraws, tucking her proof safely back into her purse.
“In your tuxedo jacket.” She sighs. “You left it in the closet of the guest suite upstairs. Naturally, I investigated.”
His eyes flash. “That napkin means nothing,” he insists. “Just a joke.”
“I disagree. Taken along with the speed of your marriage, and the fact that no one seems to even know you had a wedding … the evidence is damning to say the least. And are you really willing to risk the fallout?”
“Get out of my house,” he fumes.
“This house?” Margaret asks, archly. She sweeps a hand out along the entryway, indicating the vastness of the space. The long hallways and high ceilings. Walls of sunny windows. “You’ll lose this, too.”
“The place can burn to the ground for all I care,” he pushes back. “We don’t need an estate. Before we were married, I lived in a one-bedroom bungalow, and Loren was subletting an apartment. We’ll be just fine.”
“And what about Harlan? How long can the two of you afford his residency, his state-of-the-art care, not to mention all the Cane family’s past-due bills?”
“Enough!” he roars, and she takes a tiny step backward.
If looks were daggers, Bridger’s eyes would probably blind her.
“We’ll make it work,” he insists, his hand fisting around mine.
“I’ll take on another job. As many as it takes to support Loren.
And her dad. He’s been more of a father to me in just a few weeks than mine ever was. ”
Margaret sucks in a breath, then she quickly gathers herself, peering out the window again.
“My car is arriving.” She rounds on Bridger.
“Please take my bags out for me and help the driver. Be sure he knows the fastest route to the airstrip. Despite everything, I know you’re still a gentleman. And I take comfort in that.”
“You’ll never see us again.” His words simmer behind a clamped jaw.
“I disagree,” she murmurs. “I think Loren understands exactly what’s at stake here.
Given time to think, I’m quite sure she’ll realize the best course of action for you both.
For all of you. And it isn’t a life of starry-eyed debt.
” Margaret’s eyes slide over to meet mine.
“I believe, like me, that life has taught her love doesn’t, in fact, conquer all. ”
“You know nothing about my wife,” he growls, and as he crosses to the luggage, something boils behind his eyes. He snatches the handles, then hauls everything to the door. “You know even less about love.”
Margaret flinches when he storms out to the driveway, slamming the door behind him.
Then she directs her withering stare back to me.
She remains quiet for a long moment. Probably recalibrating.
So I square my shoulders, willing my body not to quake.
And while the seconds stretch, my silence eventually becomes strength.
“I never asked him to pay for anything.”
She inclines her head. “I believe you. In fact, I don’t think you’d ever ask him for anything directly. Or me, for that matter.”
I raise my chin. “Good.”
She takes a step closer, and I stay glued to my spot, even though my flight mode is dying to engage. “You see, Loren, if you were trying to manipulate my son, I’d know exactly how to handle the situation. I have practice with that.”
“What are you implying?”
Her brow arches. “You wouldn’t be the first woman who’s pursued Bridger for his money. His influence. His last name.”
Jealousy flares behind my ribs, like gunpowder added to a cannon. Other women and Bridger. Not my favorite subject. “I’m not like that.”
“Yes, and quite frankly, that’s more unsettling,” she says. “Bridger extended his generosity toward you without leverage. And his plan is to continue in that manner, isn’t it?”
I blink. “Plan?”
Her eyes lock with mine. “He’s arranged a lovely setup for your father in a private villa at Havenwood, hasn’t he? A lovely permanent setup. With substantial donations scheduled to repeat there quarterly.”
I swallow. That’s the answer. And my face heats. The exact reason I never wanted to take help from anyone.
“Annul your marriage, and I’ll make sure your father’s status remains unchanged for as long as he … remains.”
My stomach heaves, and I almost throw up.
“Defy me, and—” She cuts herself off. “We hardly need to go through those consequences.”
“What if Bridger refuses?”
“Force the issue. Leave him.”
“I …” My voice catches. “I promise, on my life, I only want what’s best for your son.” The statement comes on a breathless whisper. “I care about him. Genuinely.”
“That much is obvious.” Margaret offers me a grim nod, like she knows caring about Bridger is an understatement. “The truth is, you and I are more alike than you realize.”
This earns her a scoff. “You’re sorely mistaken.”
“Am I?” Her expression softens, which may be the biggest surprise of the morning. “You want to protect your people, yes? Your father. Your friends. Bridger.”
“Of course.”
She gestures toward the driveway. “That instinct is familiar.” When she turns to meet my gaze again, her eyes darken.
“I loved my husband with everything I had,” she says.
“Then one day, out of nowhere …” Her sentence trails off, and the hand clutching her purse strap tightens.
“I refuse to let my precious boy feel that pain. To believe he’s missing something vital to his world.
He’ll survive losing you now. But later … ”
My nostrils flare. “Later, what?”
“You can’t guarantee he won’t have a hard goodbye with you.” She pauses long enough to let her message sink in. She’s talking about my genetic future. Not that I’d ever leave Bridger willingly, but that someday, I might not have a choice.
“No one can guarantee that,” I manage, even as my chin quivers.
“And yet, I’ll do anything to rescue him from whatever heartbreak I can control,” she says. “So. Tell me now how you and I are so different.”
My lips part, but the words to explain myself won’t come out. Instead, I ask the obvious question. The one I can’t for the life of me answer myself. “Why force him to get married in the first place? You’re the reason he put a ring on my finger.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be you,” she says. “And marriage was never the risk.” Her jaw ticks. “Love was.”
I almost say it. I don’t really love him. We’re still just pretending. But the lie dies on my tongue. “What about Rosalind?” I choke out instead.
“Bridger won’t fall for her. Not like he’s fallen for you. Which is a good thing,” she goes on. “Exactly the kind of complication I’m trying to prevent.”
“I’m not a complication,” I snap.
“Not yet, perhaps. But Rosalind will always be the practical choice for Bridger. The moment I saw them together, I knew he admired her, but nothing more. He’s a worse actor than you are.” She pushes out a laugh. “Their relationship is my insurance policy, don’t you see?”
“In what way?” I ask, although I probably know the answer.
“My son is too honorable to cheat,” she says. “Including emotionally. And he’s far too loyal to violate his vows. Even ones he might take with a certain … mutual understanding. Once he ends things with you and commits to Rosalind, he won’t allow himself to fall in love with anyone else.”
My unshed tears are starting to become a problem. “If that’s all you want, Bridger and I were friends long before any of this.” I spread my hands to indicate … everything. “I can be his Rosalind.”
“No. You can’t.” Margaret’s tone is flat. “And more importantly, he won’t let you go. You’ll have to be the brave one. And from what I’ve witnessed, you’re more than strong enough.”
Glass stings behind my eyes, burning from the rims inward. I think of my mother and all those cold hospital rooms and our own hard goodbye. I think of my father, and the injustice of watching someone you love slip away piece by piece.
“I never wanted to hurt him,” I say, the truth not much more than a creaky rasp. “You have to believe me.”
“I do, and that’s the biggest problem,” she replies. “Even worse, I let this happen. I assumed your relationship was harmless, so in the end, I’m the one who failed my son.” She studies me again, bracing herself. “Once Bridger has a new wife, though, he’ll force himself to forget you.”
“He’ll be miserable, Margaret. Bridger doesn’t want to fight with you. He was ready to walk away from his entire trust to prevent that.”
“You’re probably right,” she relents. “But losing me now will be far less devastating for him than losing you later.”
As if summoned, Bridger steps back through the door, and the pain on his face is gruesome. I wonder how horrified he’d look if he had any idea what just went down in here. And I wonder how much—if anything—I should or will tell him.
“The jet will be ready to go by the time you get to the airstrip,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Thank you, Bridger.” She crosses the foyer and presses a kiss to her son’s cheek. “You’re my good boy.”
“No. I’m not,” he seethes. “And we won’t be pawns in your game. Not anymore.”
We.
One small syllable and my heart is in tatters.
“Perhaps,” Margaret says, as she moves to the door. Then she pins me with a backward glance. “Then again, love does have a way of surprising us.”