Chapter 52
Tom
The meeting room smelled faintly of coffee and toner, too warm for February. The glass walls trapped every sound—the shuffle of papers, the line of Richard’s pen as he underlined something on the plans.
Across the table, the Kents sat with the kind of charm that came from years of dinner parties and charity galas. Mrs. Kent’s rings caught the light; Mr. Kent’s cufflinks gleamed.
They were the sort of people his mother wanted to ingratiate herself with. The sort of clients his father courted. Tom could see things so clearly now, in a way he’d been blind to for so many years.
Lauren had shown him the way. He just wished he’d followed her guidance sooner.
Richard’s voice filled the room, smooth and assured. “The addition will echo the existing architecture—clean, neutral, simple. The result is timeless.”
Mr. Kent nodded, polite. “Yes, very tasteful.”
That word again. Tasteful.
Mrs. Kent looked less convinced. She leaned closer to the plans, her forehead creasing. “It’s beautiful,” she said carefully, “but maybe a little… boring?”
Richard’s smile didn’t waver. “Boring means longevity. Trends fade. Restraint endures.”
Tom felt the old tightness in his chest. Restraint. Endurance. White walls and polite silence.
Mrs. Kent’s voice brought him back. “We’d hoped for something that felt a little warmer. Lila’s had a difficult year—you know how it is—and we want her to feel at home.”
Richard’s reply came automatically. “Of course. Warmth can be achieved through décor. Perhaps a soft rug, some color in the upholstery—”
Lila. Lila Kent. The name was all too familiar.
The woman his parents had tried to seat beside him like a replacement part. The dinner flashed through him in a hot, bright jolt—his mother’s smile, his father’s dismissive tone.
Tom felt something settle in his chest then—a fierce, quiet clarity.
He wasn’t ever going to let their values be his again. He was Lauren’s husband and he would let her values be the ones he followed.
Mr. Kent exchanged a glance with his wife. “It’s a well-considered plan,” he said. “But we will need to reconsider our options. I think we want a different sensibility.”
Richard straightened, every inch the professional. “Of course. If you’d like to explore other firms, I completely understand.”
He was already closing the folder, the meeting as good as over.
Tom heard himself speak before he planned to. “We could design something more bold.”
Richard’s head snapped toward him.
Tom’s pulse thudded, but he didn’t back down. “What if we brought in more light? So the space feels open, connected. Less of a box.”
Mrs. Kent tilted her head, curious. “Do you have something you could show us?”
Richard’s warning was in the set of his shoulders. “Tom.”
But she’d asked. And Tom did have something. Lauren’s studio.
He reached for his tablet, flipping through his files with a swipe. “I’ve been working on something—personal. It’s not for this project, but it shows the direction I’d take.”
He turned the screen toward them. The rendering glowed softly in the conference room light—rough lines, color blocking. A vaulted ceiling that caught sunlight. Windows reaching toward the sky. Angles that curved instead of cut. The room looked alive.
Mrs. Kent’s eyes brightened; even Mr. Kent leaned forward.
“Oh,” Mrs. Kent said softly. “That’s lovely.”
Richard cleared his throat. “It’s not our usual style.”
Mrs. Kent smiled. “There’s personality in it. I think Lila deserves that.” She looked to her husband. “Don’t you?”
Mr. Kent nodded. “Absolutely. We’d like to move forward in this direction, please. More of this.”
“Of course,” Richard said smoothly, though his tone had cooled. “If that’s what you prefer.”
Mrs. Kent stood, extending her hand to Tom. “We do. You have a wonderful eye, Mr. Barrett. Refreshing.”
Tom rose and shook her hand.
The door closed behind them, and silence swelled.
Richard remained at the table, eyes on the plans. “Well,” he said at last. “Congratulations, son. Seems bad taste is fashionable again.”
Tom looked at the plans he’d made for his wife. “I like it,” he said quietly.
Richard didn’t reply.
For the first time in years, Tom didn’t chase his approval.
His father was still his boss, he just wasn’t the person he wanted to impress anymore.
Richard followed him to his office, closing the door behind them with a soft click.
Tom looked the snow globe on his desk, catching the weak winter light, glitter drifting in a lazy spiral. Next to it sat the framed photo—Lauren smiling out from behind the streaky roses he’d painted. It wasn’t just architectural bravery Tom needed to show.
His father cleared his throat. “Thomas, we need to discuss the Kent—”
“If you disrespect my wife again,” Tom said, steady and quiet, “I’ll leave this firm.”
Richard blinked, taken off guard. “Thomas—”
Tom continued, still not raising his voice. “I won’t work for a man who doesn’t respect my wife, even if that man is my father. Especially if that man is my father.”
There was a beat of silence.
“I’m not fresh out of college anymore,” Tom said. “I can get another job. I can support my wife without this place.”
My wife.
The words sank into him, warm and painful and perfect. Even now—even when she’d told him to leave—even when he didn’t know when she’d be his again—saying it felt right. It steadied him. Something in his chest clicked into place every time.
Richard’s jaw tightened. “Thomas, that’s—”
“It’s non-negotiable.” Tom’s voice held firm. “I won’t work under a man who sneers at the woman I love. The woman I married. You will not talk about her art or her taste or her work like it’s a joke. Not ever again.”
A moment stretched. Then his father exhaled sharply. “You saved the Kent contract.”
Tom lifted a hand and rested it lightly on the ugly photo frame. The gesture was almost unconscious, but Richard’s eyes followed it.
“I learned it from Lauren,” Tom said. He lifted his gaze. “She taught me bravery.”
Richard’s silence was heavy—not dismissive, but absorbing.
Tom’s voice dropped. “If I stay at this firm, I stay as myself.”
Richard’s eyes flicked to the plans on the desk, then back to Tom. “And your wife?”
Tom felt his pulse soften, warm. “You respect her. Fully. Publicly. Privately.”
Richard’s gaze sharpened. “Or you walk?”
“Or I walk,” Tom agreed.
Another silence. Then—unexpectedly—Richard nodded. Slow. Stiff. But genuine.
“Very well,” he said. “We can… move forward on those terms.”
Tom felt something inside him settle—like a foundation finally poured where there had only been sand before.
“Good,” Tom said.
He turned back to his desk, the snow globe glimmering by his hand, Lauren’s photo surrounded by his misshapen roses. He let the sight steady him, the same way she steadied him.
He wasn’t the man she needed yet. But he was becoming him. Piece by piece.
Choice by choice.
When he knocked, Jake opened the door with a half-eaten cookie in hand.
“Hey! You exist,” Jake said around a mouthful.
Tom managed a weak smile.
Mia poked her head out from the kitchen. “Tom! Perfect timing.” She thrust a mixing bowl into Jake’s arms. “Babe, stir this.”
Jake saluted with exaggerated dignity.
Tom stepped inside, shrugging out of the cold. Their house wrapped around him—clean lines, deep blues, open-plan. There was nothing wrong with it, it just wasn’t Lauren’s aesthetic.
Tom sank onto the couch.
He missed his house. He missed Lauren’s furnishing. Her choices.
Mia came over, drying her hands on a towel. The heart-shaped locket she wore swung gently with her movement.
The sight of it pressed hard against Tom’s chest.
“You look tired,” Mia said gently.
“Long day,” he said quietly. “Long week. Long year.”
“Mm.” Mia’s eyes were kind. “And it’s only February.” She thumbed the locket absently. “Your brother is already teasing me with his Valentine’s Day plans.”
Jake smiled. “Massive plans.”
“Romantic plans?” Mia asked.
“Stupid romantic,” he agreed, grinning.
Tom blinked. “What kind of plans?”
Jake tossed the spoon into the bowl and leaned against the counter. “I’m still trying to figure it out. Mia deserves something sonnet-level romantic.”
“I don’t want a sonnet,” Mia said.
“You say that,” Jake told her, “and then you write me those notes…”
Mia flushed. “Those are different.”
Tom found himself smiling. It was good seeing his brother so happy. It hurt, a little but it was a good hurt.
Jake still hadn’t taken his eyes off Mia. “I need to step up my game. Something… vulnerable.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her before glancing back at Tom. “Not like—you know—naked vulnerable, but emotional vulnerable.”
Mia laughed, swatting at Jake’s arm. “Hey, sometimes a woman likes both.”
Tom leaned back, staring at the ceiling as the thought sank into him. He wanted to be vulnerable for Lauren. He needed to be. He needed to risking looking stupid, risk being too much.
Lauren had done all of that for him.
Mia leaned in and kissed Jake’s cheek. “You being vulnerable makes me feel… chosen.”
Tom swallowed hard.
Chosen.
The word rattled through him. Did Lauren feel chosen?
Jake held out a cookie. “Here. You look like you’re thinking too hard.”
Tom took it, even as something tectonic shifted inside him.
He’d considered vulnerability as the price of falling in love, a tax you paid during courtship. But what if it had never been a byproduct? What if it had been the point?
He’d followed the map she’d stitched into the quilt.
First date.
First apartment.
The hiking trail where he’d proposed.
The church where they’d married.
Each square had given him a hint, a way to rebuild what he’d broken.
Now there was only two left before the blank row she’d included for their future.
The next one was a square of pale blue and gold thread, waves curling against sand. Their honeymoon.
Tom traced the stitching with his thumb, the tiny embroidered sun..
He remembered the real trip—the salt wind, the taste of her sun-warm skin. How she’d laughed when he’d tried to build her a lopsided sandcastle. They’d been ridiculous and happy and whole.
He wanted that again.
Wanted Lauren again—laughing, easy, happy.
He could take her to the coast, maybe. But this square hadn’t been about the beach. It had been about being known—completely, and without hesitation. About touching her, and being touched by her, in the kind of trust that came from being utterly seen.
He wanted that again.
Wanted to make her feel what she’d always given him—wanted, chosen, adored.
She wouldn’t want that—not now.
He sat on the edge of the bed, the quilt spread across his knees.
The memory of the Christmas boxes flickered through his mind—the ache of sorting through what she’d thrown away. And the flash of red satin.
Red lingerie. New for Christmas. Unworn.
The memory of that slip of clothing burned in him—longing tangled with shame.
What had he ever done that was as open as that? As vulnerable?
He let himself remember her on their honeymoon, toes in the sand, sunlight in her hair. Happy.
Now, outside the window, winter pressed against the glass, hard and grey.