6. June
JUNE
The sunlight spills across the deck in sheets of gold, catching in the wine glass Ashton keeps refilling like it’s his personal mission to keep me just the right side of tipsy. The water laps against the hull, seagull song just far enough away not to grate on our eardrums.
I stretch out on the cushioned bench at the stern like a cat, legs tucked under me. I’ve always loved the summer, the sun blessing me with kissed shoulders well into the fall.
Right now, gazing at the ring on my left hand, everything feels next to perfect.
“I’ll get you a nicer one,” Ashton says, climbing onto the bench next to me and taking my hand in his. “Something more sparkly.”
I hum into my wine glass. “I don’t know, I kind of like it.”
“It’s not even silver.”
“So?”
He drops his hand in favor of tucking me under his arm. “So, no wife of mine is going to walk around with a piece of tin on her finger.”
“Snob.”
A kiss to my forehead. “Then you’re a snob by association.”
“Am not.”
“You own a yacht.”
“You own a yacht.”
“And what’s mine is yours,” he grins down at me. Beneath his sunglasses, I know his eyes are crinkling fondly at the corners.
No one would ever believe me, but the fact that I’m now a multi-millionaire (by association) has barely registered.
It’s been hard to think of anything beyond this almost week-long mini-moon on the coast of Martha’s Vineyard.
Letting Ashton cater to my every whim as we’ve dived and swum and eaten and drank our way through post-marital bliss.
He leans in for a lazy kind of kiss, one that feels like we have all the time in the world.
It’s been easy to convince myself that we do.
But tomorrow is my mother’s 60th birthday party, and as much as I’d like to stay in our little bubble… we’re going to have to face the music. Meredith will be polite, Sophie will not, and both will want explanations for my week-long absence that I haven’t rehearsed.
But here, wrapped in sunlight and Ashton, I can pretend none of that exists.
He shifts, the cushions sighing under his weight. “I have to confess something.”
I glance at him warily. “That’s ominous.”
“Nothing bad,” he says quickly, squeezing my shoulder. “I just… I’m needed back in New York. A client thing. I’ll have to fly out right after your mom’s party.”
My chest loosens at that. “So you’ll still come to the party?”
“Of course,” he says, grinning. “I’ll be there to do my husbandly duties and run interference if anyone starts something they shouldn’t.”
That draws a laugh out of me. “You want to go head-to-head with a Holloway? You must really love me.”
“That is very true.” He leans in, brushing another kiss against my temple. “It’s just for a few days. Then, when I’m back, how about we go look at that lighthouse together?”
Tom Nevers. The lighthouse of my childhood dreams. This asshole.
“That’s my lighthouse.”
“Then I’ll get it for you,” he amends easily.
I roll my eyes at him. “And if I said I wanted the moon?”
“I actually know a guy at SpaceX–”
“Shut up.” I kiss him. “I’ll miss you.”
“Good,” he says, eyes sparkling with mirth.
“I mean it, Parker.”
Another kiss.
“I’ll be back before you know it, Parker.”
September 2025
“June.”
The sunlight is gone. The air is still. Mark is standing in the doorway of the hotel suite, his suit creased in a way that tells me he hasn’t sat down all day. Meredith is already standing up behind me.
“What?” My voice comes out flatter than I expect.
Mark steps inside and shuts the door behind him. “Ashton’s in custody. He was detained at JFK this morning.”
I’ll be back before you know it, Parker.
“Detained?”
The room feels smaller, the walls somehow closer, the air thicker and harsher on my lungs.
“He walked in willingly.” Mark’s eyes are steady on mine, even as Meredith comes to my shoulder. “He handed himself over to federal authorities. He’s being held here in Manhattan. I’ve been told his arraignment will likely be within the next forty-eight hours, but it could move faster.”
I hear Meredith exhale beside me. My own breath is still struggling to pass through my lungs. Why is this so difficult? Why can’t I get this one thing right? Why is it so hard just to breathe?”
“Why?”
Meredith’s hands land gently on my shoulders as she guides me over to our usual spot on the couch. Mark trails behind us, occupying the armchair at his earliest opportunity.
Belatedly, I realize this is the first time I’ve seen him dressed anything less than immaculately.
Not that anyone else would probably notice his slightly disheveled air.
Next to me, I note Meredith’s straight hair.
A habit she’s gotten back into now that the monotony of our five-star prison is starting to wear us both down (I’ve personally taken up Spanish soap operas.)
Such observations help ground me back to reality.
“Could be a lot of reasons,” Mark finally answers my earlier question. What was I asking about again? “Maybe he finally decided running would make him look guiltier. Maybe he had legal advice overseas. It’s plausible someone told him that cooperating could soften the blow.”
“Or maybe this is his way of controlling the narrative before someone else does,” Meredith adds. Her hands haven’t relinquished their hold on my shoulders.
Over the past few weeks, I’d told myself I was getting there. That the bruised, ugly mess Ashton left me in was scabbing over. That he was out of sight and out of mind, and as long as I clung to my own innocence, there was no way for him to get to me anymore.
Now it feels like someone just ripped off the bandage, leaving me raw and aching all over again. Worse now because I was stupid enough to believe it was getting better.
“June.”
The hotel room closes in around me, too much soft carpet, too many shadows cast by furniture I’m starting to loathe.
Days blurring into nights, into more days of the same four walls.
Thinking I was doing everything I could to get this over with, complying with every request, listening to Mark explain things over and over and over and over.
But I’ve just been a sitting duck, waiting for the next blow with no defenses in sight.
“June,” Meredith’s voice is soft, closer than I thought. Practically a whisper. Hands squeezing my shoulders. “You don’t need to go to the arraignment. Let me sit in and tell you what happens. You don’t need to?—”
I cut her off before she can finish. “No. I’m going.”
“June—”
“I said I’m going.” My voice is steady now, sharper than I expected. “If he’s going to stand there and face a judge, I want to be in the room. I want to see him.”
And maybe, I don’t say out loud, I want him to see me.
I sit wedged between Meredith and Mark in the second row of spectator seating, my ankle monitor digging into my skin like a vindictive little reminder of what happened the last time I was here.
Ashton’s not in the room yet. The low hum of conversation, shuffling of papers, clicking of pens—all of it feels like background noise to the thud of my own pulse.
Meredith leans forward, eyes scanning the clerk’s desk as if memorizing the whole room will somehow give us an insight into the case we haven’t had yet.
How she did this on her own last time, I don’t know.
Her presence beside me is a buzzing kind of anchor, one that vibrates with a familiar anxiety and hums in tune with my own.
Mark, on the other hand, is back to being cool, calm, and an asshole.
Both rock and hard place, the posture of a man about to win an argument on a subject he’s already declared himself an expert in.
“Here he comes,” Mark murmurs like this is some sporting event he’s commentating on.
But I tuck my irritation away for later.
Because there he is.
In a—you’ve got to be kidding me—Burberry jacket, wrinkled in a way that says it’s been worn for hours, maybe days.
And for goodness’ sake, the tears fall without any more prompting. The blurriness obscures my view of his features. But I know it’s him from the way he walks, the way he sits. The way his back straightens in that particular way when he’s uncomfortable or trying to make a good impression.
And okay, sure. Six weeks isn’t enough time to know someone. I know that. If it were anyone else, I would know that.
But I know this man. I know him. I do.
I expect to feel anger. Or hatred. Or at the very least, the sharp jab of betrayal. Instead, I just feel grief.
Of what could have been, the unfairness of it all, the distance, the separation, the uncertainty, take your pick.
Silently, Meredith holds out a tissue.
“The United States versus Ashton Parker.” The clerk calls the case.
The prosecutor, the same balding man from my own arraignment, lays out the charges: conspiracy to distribute and sell counterfeit artwork, wire fraud, aiding and abetting. It’s a list that feels too long to be read aloud, and yet we’re forced to sit through it anyway.
Mark leans over me toward Meredith. “They’re overcharging him. Typical opening play. Pad the indictment so they can make a show of dropping counts later.”
“Funnily enough, Mark, I also went to law school.”
Ashton’s lawyer rises to enter a plea. “Not guilty, Your Honor.”
I wonder why they chose for his lawyer to say it, when Mark had been so instant that I made my own plea. I wonder what the psychology of that is, if it made me look more innocent to tremble before the Judge myself. I wonder if Mark is a better lawyer than whoever this guy is.
I wonder when I’ll ever get to hear Ashton’s voice again.
The prosecutor goes first on bail arguments, going for the jugular on all accounts, just as Mark predicted.
“Your Honor, the defendant has substantial resources, including international bank accounts. He was apprehended upon re-entering the United States after an extended absence. We believe he has both the motive and means to flee if released.”
Mark mutters smugly under his breath, “What did I say?”
I glance sideways at him. “You want to sit somewhere else?”
“Just stating facts,” but there’s a little too much glee in his smile. Oh, how he loves being right.
No wonder Mere can’t stand him.
The prosecutor pivots to the alleged evidence, reeling off everything we already know.
Finishing his argument with: “While we acknowledge his wife, Ms. Parker, has also been charged and cooperating with bail, the government maintains these transactions were jointly orchestrated. The sophistication of the scheme, the defendant’s access to private collectors, and the skill of the works themselves all point to a coordinated operation. ”
The words “his wife” land like a weight in my lap. No one in the room looks at me, but I feel the heat of the label burn in my ears.
I wonder if it burns him, too.
Ashton’s lawyer finally stands, and Mark inches forward in his seat.
“Your Honor, my client returned to the United States of his own volition. He has significant professional ties here, no prior criminal record, and intends to fully cooperate with the proceedings. While the government paints this as a complex criminal enterprise, we contend these works are misrepresented pastiches—not counterfeits—and that Mr. Parker’s involvement is limited to legitimate art sales. ”
Mark leans toward me. “I’d have gone harder on the lack of evidence, but fine. It’s serviceable.”
Meredith gives him a look sharp enough to slice through whatever ego cloud he’s floating on. “Maybe try not to backseat-lawyer the guy currently defending the man your client can’t have contact with?”
“Point taken,” Mark says, though his tone makes it clear he hasn’t taken anything.
Ashton’s lawyer rattles off a proposed bail package, similar to mine, though without the sister acting as a metaphorical guardian angel. It’s strange how quickly all this legalese starts to make sense.
Regardless, it’s Meredith’s turn to translate the proceedings in my ear. “He won’t be able to reach out to you after this.”
“Obviously,” I whisper back, though the word tastes bitter. Could he have reached out before? Did he even want to?
The prosecutor objects, and there’s a back and forth on guaranteeing compliance. But the judge doesn’t look convinced. She takes her time, eyes scanning the notes in front of her.
By the time she looks back up, even Mark’s palms seem to be sweating.
For now, the government has lumped us together like Bonnie and Clyde. Ashton not making bail makes us both look bad.
“Mr. Parker will be granted release on a two-million-dollar secured bond, subject to home detention at a verified New York address, GPS monitoring, surrender of travel documents, and no contact with co-defendants, including June Parker. Any violation of these conditions will result in immediate remand.”
Meredith exhales next to me, a sound that’s equal parts relief and caution.
Mark smirks. “Told you. The prosecutor didn’t have enough to keep him locked up pre-trial.”
I don’t answer. Because Ashton’s turning.
His eyes frantically scan the benches. Looking for… looking for…
Me.
They lock on to me.
And it’s like looking in a mirror. It’s like we’re the only people in the room. It’s like every damn cliche I can think of.
His lips move, barely shaping the words.
I’m sorry.
My throat goes tight. My vision blurs again.
By the time I pull myself together again, he’s already been escorted out.