Chapter Thirty-Andrea
It’s just another Friday.
Callie has had a long day at school. I haven’t spoken to Remy for six days, and I’m missing him like crazy.
He’s called.
But I haven’t answered, and none of my texts have gone through.
It’s just—I needed the space. Needed the time.
My hands are tight on my purse, knuckles pale in the dim glow of the afternoon sun coming in through the tinted windows. The driver eases out of the school’s long, perfectly manicured driveway.
We drive for five minutes, and that’s all it takes for Callie to fall asleep in her booster seat, her soft little snores a lullaby I should find comforting.
Instead, they make my chest ache.
Because she trusts me.
She holds onto my pinky like I’m her safe place.
Like I’m permanent.
And the truth? I want to be.
But my brain won’t shut up.
Ever since we visited my parents, it keeps playing back my father’s words, his unreadable gaze. My mother’s too-tight smiles.
The way Dad said, “Sigma’s jet left Greece yesterday,” like it was a warning bell.
Passengers. Plural.
Maui. Paris. Tahiti.
Parties, maybe. Royals, definitely. Women, it’s been known to happen.
And Remy? My Remy?
Where the hell is he in all of this?
The car jerks a little, and the death grip I have on my purse loosens as the driver takes a corner too sharply.
“Sorry, Mrs. Falco,” the driver murmurs.
“It’s fine.”
I force myself to relax, even though my pulse is hammering.
My cousins have been texting, and even now my phone is buzzing with unanswered messages.
I grab it before it can wake Callie up, and I freeze.
The text is from Clementine.
Clem
Hey girl, I know you’re like having this whole thing, but I just got Connor to confess. The uncles sent Remy to Greece to test him. To see if he was good enough for you. FYI, he’s coming home today. But, Andrea, there were women and—
Shit.
I stop reading.
I don’t want to finish her message. Don’t want to know what she has to say about what Remy was doing while he was away because I can’t even go there.
One thing sticks out, though. He’s coming home.
Shit.
I don’t even know what I’d say to him when he gets home.
Do I scream at him? Demand the truth?
Or do I smile, pretend, play the good little wife while keeping a part of myself locked away where he can’t reach it?
Fuck, I just don’t know.
I do know I’m not built like my mother.
I’m not her brand of invincible.
I’m not Aunt Sofia, aka Z. Wolff, bestselling author with a husband who worships the ground she walks on.
I’m Andrea. And maybe I married a man who will never be able to give me that kind of love.
But then I picture the way Remy looks at me sometimes.
Like I’m already his world.
Like he’d burn everything down just to keep me safe.
And my heart twists.
Because maybe I’m already in too deep.
Maybe I can’t protect myself anymore.
By the time we pull into the driveway, Callie still sleeping peacefully, I’m no closer to an answer.
Confront him? Protect myself?
I rest my head in my hands, close my eyes, and whisper the one truth I can’t escape.
God help me, I’m in love with him.
“I really do love him,” I whisper aloud.
The words taste like glass on my tongue.
Sharp. Dangerous. Beautiful.
The SUV hums to a stop in front of the house.
The driver cuts the engine, and silence fills the cabin, broken only by Callie’s soft snores.
I turn in my seat, unbuckling her little harness with fingers that feel clumsy and slow.
Her lashes are dark crescents on her cheeks, her pink lips parted, her small fists curled like she’s dreaming of something sweet.
I ease her forward, and her head naturally tips against my shoulder, warm and heavy.
Something cracks inside me.
Because this child isn’t mine—not by blood—but every beat of her heart against me makes me want to claim her as fiercely as if she were.
She trusts me. She loves me. And I’d kill before I let anyone hurt her.
The same way I feel about the man who gave her to me.
The same man who might already be breaking me.
I swallow, shifting Callie carefully so I don’t wake her.
My pulse is a mess, erratic and desperate, as I wait for the driver to open the door.
But it isn’t the driver.
The door swings wide and there he is.
Remy.
Broad shoulders filling the frame, green eyes sharp and unreadable, his presence hitting me like a thunderclap.
And my heart?
It starts pounding like it’s trying to break free from my chest.
Because no matter how hard I try to convince myself to guard it—it already belongs to him.
And I’m not sophisticated enough to keep pretending it doesn’t.