Chapter 2
Elijah
It's been a long two weeks.
A slow, suffocating, mind-numbing two weeks.
Going to Spain with my wife was… well, calling it “torture” feels a bit too dramatic, but “unpleasant enough to make a trip to the dentist feel like a vacation” might just hit the mark. She called it a romantic reset. I called it a hostage with room service.
Instead of going back to our home with her like the obedient husband she pretends she has, I went straight to the garage.
I needed to check on things and to make sure my brother hadn't set anything on fire in my absence.
I couldn't stand being in Rose's company any longer, especially with the conversation I planned to have with her after our son’s football game.
And maybe a part of me was trying to delay seeing Willow.
She hates me. I don't even blame her for hating me; I hate me more than she ever could. She's right to hate me. I broke her family. I betrayed my best friend. I made choices that still feel like a punch in the ribs every time I think about them.
Would I change it if I could? Most of it, yes. But my son? Never.
He's the one thing I didn't screw up. The only thing I ever got right.
Everything else? The lies, the fallout, the mess I made for her family.
I regret all of that, every damn day. I wear it like a second skin; it eats away at me.
Now, though, I’m stuck paying for it, chained to a woman who cares more about status than people, living the nightmare that is the consequences of my choices.
Rose is a pretentious, venom-tongued nightmare.
God help me later tonight when I break the news.
I step out of my car, lock it, and instantly hear the unmistakable sound of my brother absolutely screaming Shania Twain as if his life depended on it. He’s half-buried under a car bonnet, legs sticking out, voice echoing off the walls as he sings “Man I Feel Like a Woman " by Shania Twain.
I bark out a laugh.
He startles, smashing his head on the metal with a loud clang.
“Jesus—fuck—Ow—”
He scrambles out, rubbing the top of his head, glaring at me like I’m the one who bumped his head.
I grin. “Didn't realise you were a woman. Actually… no, that tracks. I should have figured it out years ago when you used to run around in mum's heels and that lace bra, calling yourself Penelope.”
His mouth drops open. "You promised you'd never mention that again."
I shrug. “And you promised never to touch my stash of chocolate again.” I eye my bag of favourites that are open on my desk. “And yet, you have. Life's full of disappointments.”
He points at me with a wrench. “You're an asshole.”
I've been called worse. But so has he.
“I won't disagree,” I say with a shrug. “And you're still an annoying little fuck.”
Ezra glares half-heartedly, rubbing the spot he hit on the bonnet, then laughs and pulls me into a quick hug, thumping my back.
He steps away with a stupid grin. “So, how was the holiday with Cruella de Vil?”
I tap the bonnet. “Let's just say I’m glad to be back and far away from her.”
He wipes his hands on a rag that's definitely making them worse. “That bad?”
“Worse,” I grimace. “I spent most of the trip finding excuses to stay out of the hotel and nearly got adopted by a Spanish family.”
He lifts a brow. “You do remember the point of a relationship-repair holiday is actually spending time with your wife?”
Oh, I remembered. I also remembered trying to move the dates so we could be there for Willow after her dad died, but Rose threw a tantrum loud enough that the neighbours probably heard her and I had a headache for days.
“Well, reconnecting became a non-option when I walked into our room and found her getting fucked at both ends.”
Ezra chokes on thin air. “I—what?”
“Yep.” By two hairy slimeballs who barely noticed me standing in the doorway. Rose sounded like she was in a bad porno—high-pitched, dramatic, clearly all for show.
As if I wouldn't recognise the sound of a real orgasm. Jesus… I was married to her long enough to know she's never had a fake one.
“Jesus Christ, Elijah.”
I quickly look at my watch. “Only pissed me off because I had to pay for another room to stay in.” There was no way I was sleeping in that bed with her and paying for a new room for her to stay in.
“Well, what now?” He asks, tossing the oily rag onto the workbench.
“I've got the papers ready. I gave her a chance, and she blew it. So, divorce it is.”
He lets out a low whistle. “Need backup?”
Ezra has always been the reckless one, the idiot who laughs in the face of danger—but when it comes to family, he shows up. He stood by me even when I didn't deserve it. Even after he warned me, Rose was trouble, and I ignored him like a blind fool.
“I’ll be alright, but… can River stay with you tonight?”
“You're doing it tonight?” He stares at me wide-eyed, excitement written all over his face. Trust him to be happy about his brother's pending divorce.
“No point dragging it out.” The thought of staying married to her any longer makes my skin itch.
He jerks his head, “Fine by me. I was going to his game anyway. But—what about Willow?”
Oh crap. Willow. Damn.
That complicates things. I know she hates her mum, hates me, is grieving her dad, and the last thing she needs is to hear a blowout argument or witness the performance I know Rose will put on.
Ezra smirks. “She can crash at mine, too. I don't mind having a pretty girl around.”
I shoot him a glare. “She's off limits.” For Christ's sake, she's only twenty and River’s sister.
He just laughs, all teeth, brows waggling like the little shit he is. “Relax. I’m not planning on corrupting the girl. She's already halfway there.”
My stomach drops. “You've seen her?”
He leans against the car, arms crossed. “Ran into her a few times at the bar. Dancing. Grinding on some guy every night. Thought about saying hi, but figured that’d scare her off. So I just watched.”
“Ezra,” I warn.
“What? Someone had to keep an eye on her.” He pauses. “She's fucking gorgeous, Elijah. You didn't tell me she grew up and turned into—”
“Stop talking.” I cut him off from finishing that sentence. I don't want to imagine what the next words out of his mouth would be.
This doesn't sound like her at all.
I haven't seen Willow properly in years, but River talks about her nonstop. Those two have always been inseparable, and it was one of the biggest things I would fight Rose over. If she had her way, they wouldn't have had a relationship after the supervised visits ended.
I never understood it. How a mother could just leave their child behind without looking back. I pushed back. Hard. Making sure both kids spent the summer holidays at her parents' place, so River and Willow could actually see each other.
It was the only way to keep them from being pulled apart.
And now hearing Ezra describe her the way he just did.
None of it fits the girl River worships, who used to dance in every hallway pretending she was performing to a sold-out audience; she was always finding ways to make River laugh, and their bond has always been strong.
It tells me one thing.
She's hurting more than any of us realised.
My phone buzzes.
River: Can you check on Willow? Mum's alone with her.
Shit.
I shove the phone into my pocket and look up at Ezra. “I need to head back to the house.”
He straightens up, expression sharpening. “Something wrong?”
“Probably,” I mutter. “Knowing Rose, definitely.”
She can play devoted mother of the year when River is around—captain of the football team, top grades, a shiny trophy for her to parade in front of her stuck-up bitch friends. Willow, though, she's never had the time or patience for her and never pretended that she did.
Willow is grieving and most likely hungover if what Ezra said is true, and clearly, she isn't in a good place at all. Rose will sense that and will stamp all over it.
For the love of all things holy, what did I see in her?
“I’ll fill you in later,” I say, already walking toward my car. “Lock the garage up.”
I yank the door open, then look back over my shoulder. “Oh, and no women at the flat while River is staying over.”
Ezra rolls his eyes so hard I can practically hear it. “I’m wounded you'd even suggest I’d traumatise the kids.”
I know my son is no saint; he told me when he lost his virginity, but it's not the point.
“You traumatise everyone,” I call back, dropping into the driver's seat. “Just keep it in your pants for one night.”
He flips me off, and I return it as I shut the door and fire up the engine.
Time to go deal with the hurricane.