CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
TRISTEN
The conference room at Wickham headquarters felt different without Aubree's influence softening its edges.
I sat at the head of the table, staring at the faces of my legal team, my PR director, and Ciara, who had been running interference for me since the night of the gala. They were all waiting for me to speak, to give direction, to be the decisive CEO they'd come to expect over the past decade.
But the man who used to command boardrooms with effortless authority felt like a stranger now. That man had been confident in his ability to manage any situation. That man had believed he could protect everyone if he just worked hard enough, stayed calm enough, carried enough burdens alone.
That man had destroyed his marriage.
"Let's start with Oakleigh," I said, my voice rougher than I intended. "I want her removed from every upcoming Wickham event. The charity luncheon next week, the foundation board meeting, the hospital wing dedication. All of it."
My PR director, a sharp woman named Vanessa who had been with the company for seven years, exchanged a glance with the lead attorney. "Mr. Wickham, that's going to raise questions. After the gala coverage, people are going to notice her sudden absence."
"Good. Let them notice."
"The optics could suggest conflict. The press will speculate."
"The press has been speculating since that magazine article turned my wife into a footnote in her own family's story." I felt my jaw clench and forced myself to relax it. "I don't care about optics anymore, Vanessa. I care about doing the right thing."
The words tasted foreign in my mouth. For months, I'd cared about nothing but optics. Keeping the peace. Managing perceptions. Making sure Oakleigh was comfortable so the pregnancy would progress smoothly. And every single decision I'd made in service of those goals had pushed Aubree further away.
"What about the surrogacy itself?" the attorney asked.
His name was David Holloway, and he'd been reviewing our contract with Oakleigh since I'd first called him in a panic weeks ago.
"Ms. Scott could claim emotional abandonment if you cut off contact entirely.
That could complicate the custody arrangement after the birth. "
"That's why I want to hire independent advocates.
A dedicated medical liaison, a separate point of contact for all pregnancy-related matters.
Someone who isn't me." I pulled a folder from the stack in front of me and slid it across the table.
"I've already identified three candidates.
All experienced in high-risk surrogate situations.
All capable of ensuring Oakleigh receives excellent care without any direct involvement from me or my wife. "
David flipped through the folder, his eyebrows rising slightly. "This is thorough."
"I've had a lot of sleepless nights to think it through."
That was an understatement. I hadn't slept more than three hours at a stretch since Aubree left.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face in that alley.
The devastation. The betrayal. The moment she'd ripped off her rings and thrown them at my chest like they meant nothing, when really they meant everything and I'd made her forget that.
"What about communication with Ms. Scott directly?" Ciara asked carefully. "She's been calling the office constantly. Leaving messages. She showed up yesterday demanding to see you."
My stomach turned at the thought. "She showed up here?"
"Security handled it. But she was upset. Crying. Saying you'd abandoned her and the baby."
Of course she was crying. That was Oakleigh's weapon of choice. Every time I'd tried to set a boundary, she'd dissolved into tears and guilt and claims that stress would harm the pregnancy. And every time, I'd backed down like the fucking coward I was.
Not anymore.
"All communication goes through the legal team or the medical advocate," I said firmly. "I will not speak to her directly unless it's absolutely necessary for the baby's health. And even then, it will be documented and witnessed."
"She's not going to like that."
"I don't care what she likes. I care about protecting my family.
" The word caught in my throat, because what family did I have left?
Aubree was gone. The baby wasn't born yet.
I was sitting alone in an empty house, surrounded by rooms that still smelled like my wife's perfume, waiting for a chance to prove myself that might never come.
"And Mrs. Wickham?" Vanessa asked gently. "Should we loop her in on any of these decisions?"
"No." The word came out harder than I meant it to. "Aubree needs space. She needs time to heal without me pressuring her for forgiveness or updates or anything else. When she's ready to talk, she'll reach out. Until then, I handle this alone."
It was the opposite of everything I'd done for the past eight months.
Instead of keeping secrets to protect her, I was giving her the truth and the distance to process it.
Instead of making decisions without her input, I was making decisions that removed the source of her pain without demanding anything in return.
It felt counterintuitive. Every instinct in my body screamed at me to fight for her, to show up at that lake house and beg on my knees until she took me back.
But that's what the old Tristen would have done.
The one who thought he knew best. The one who believed he could fix anything if he just tried hard enough.
That approach had gotten me here, sitting in a conference room planning damage control while my wife rebuilt her life three hours away.
"I want to make one more thing clear," I said, looking around the table at each person in turn.
"Everything we discuss in this room stays in this room.
Oakleigh has already proven she's willing to use the press to further her own agenda.
I will not give her ammunition. I will not give gossip sites more fuel for their speculation about my marriage.
And I will not let my wife's name be dragged through the mud any more than it already has been. "
They all nodded, their expressions serious.
I hoped they understood. I hoped they saw that this wasn't about protecting the Wickham brand or managing corporate reputation.
This was about the woman I loved, the woman I'd failed, and the long road I had ahead of me if I ever wanted to deserve her again.
The meeting ended an hour later, after we'd ironed out details and assigned responsibilities. I stayed in the conference room after everyone left, staring out the window at the city skyline.
Aubree was out there somewhere. Not in the city, but somewhere in the world, breathing the same air, looking at the same sky. I wondered if she was thinking about me. I wondered if she hated me, or if the love we'd built over eight years was strong enough to survive what I'd done to it.
I pulled out my phone and opened our text thread. My messages stared back at me, unanswered. One hundred and forty-seven of them now, each one more desperate than the last.
I started typing a new message, then stopped. Deleted it. Started again.
I know you need space. I'm going to give it to you.
No. That sounded like I was doing her a favor instead of accepting the consequences of my own actions.
I'm not going to keep messaging you. I know it's not what you need right now.
Better, but still not right. Still putting the focus on what I was doing instead of what she deserved.
I stared at the blank message box for a long time. Then I put my phone away without sending anything.
She didn't need more words from me. She'd had enough words.
Enough promises that I'd do better, enough apologies that meant nothing when my actions contradicted them.
What she needed was to see that I could change.
That I could respect her boundaries. That I could put her needs above my own desperate desire to fix things on my timeline.
So I would stop messaging her. I would stop calling. I would stop flooding her phone with words that couldn't undo the damage I'd caused.
And I would start doing the work.
That night, I went home to the house that felt more like a mausoleum than a home.
Oakleigh's belongings were gone, packed up and shipped to the hotel where she was staying with the medical nurse I'd hired.
The guest suite had been stripped and cleaned, all traces of her presence erased, but I could still feel her there.
Like a stain that wouldn't come out no matter how hard you scrubbed.
I walked through the rooms slowly, touching surfaces that Aubree had touched.
The kitchen island where she'd sat watching me cook.
The couch where we'd spent countless evenings tangled together, her head on my chest, my fingers running through her hair.
The bedroom doorway where I'd stood so many times, just watching her sleep, marveling at the fact that this incredible woman had chosen me.
Her closet was still full of clothes. Her skincare products still lined the bathroom counter. The book on her nightstand still held a bookmark, waiting for her to come back and finish it.
I picked up the book and held it against my chest, breathing in the faint traces of her perfume that still clung to the pages.
I'm sorry. The words echoed through my head like a prayer. I'm so fucking sorry.
But sorry wasn't enough. Sorry was just a word, and I'd used it so many times it had lost all meaning.
What Aubree needed wasn't my remorse. She needed my change.
She needed to see that I could be the partner she deserved, the husband who put her first, the man who would never again choose another woman's comfort over his wife's peace of mind.
I sat down on the edge of our bed and pulled her wedding rings from my pocket.
I'd been carrying them since that night, unable to put them somewhere that felt appropriate.
They were too important for a jewelry box, too precious for a drawer.
So they stayed with me, a constant weight against my thigh, a reminder of everything I'd lost and everything I needed to earn back.
The engagement ring caught the lamplight, sending tiny rainbows dancing across the ceiling. I remembered the day I'd proposed. Aubree's face when she saw the box. The tears streaming down her cheeks as she said yes, over and over, like she couldn't believe I was real.
She'd looked at me like I was everything she'd ever wanted. And I'd spent eight years trying to live up to that look, trying to be worthy of the faith she'd placed in me.
Somewhere along the way, I'd stopped trying.
I'd gotten comfortable. I'd started believing that love was enough, that as long as I felt devoted to her, my actions didn't matter.
I'd forgotten that marriage wasn't just about feeling.
It was about choosing. Every single day, in every single moment, choosing your partner above everyone and everything else.
I had stopped choosing Aubree.
I had chosen peace over honesty. Comfort over confrontation. Oakleigh's tears over my wife's tears.
And now I was sitting alone in an empty bedroom, holding rings that didn't belong to me anymore, wondering if I would ever get the chance to slip them back onto her finger.
I closed my fist around the diamonds and gold, feeling them bite into my palm.
I will earn you back. The vow formed in my chest, fierce and desperate and absolutely sincere. I don't know how long it will take or what I'll have to do. But I will become the man you thought you married. I will prove that you weren't wrong to believe in me.
And if you never come back, if the damage is too deep to repair, then I will spend the rest of my life knowing that I tried. That I finally learned the lesson I should have learned years ago.
You come first. Always. No matter what.
I stayed on that bed for a long time, holding her rings and making promises to a woman who couldn't hear them.
It was the beginning of the grovel.
And I had no idea how long it would take.