Chapter 42
Harrison
Bloom & Bloom.
I stare up at the massive glass-and-steel fortress towering over Midtown.
One of the most powerful law firms in Manhattan.
Fantastic.
Maybe if I stand here long enough, the massive cathedral to billable hours will collapse on my head and put me out of my misery.
It would hurt less. That’s for sure.
Cold rain spits against my skin as Manhattan moves all around me. Traffic howls. Sirens wail. A taxi sprays gutter water on me and finally gets my feet to move.
Life goes on for everyone else.
While it’s all I can do to breathe in and out.
Henry Bloom doesn’t exactly schedule hey buddy, let’s catch up meetings.
Which means there’s only one reason I’m standing here right now, trying not to puke all over Fifth Avenue.
Pix.
She’s going through with it.
The divorce.
I’ve been avoiding Henry Bloom for so long now, I thought I’d outrun fate.
I didn’t.
And the truly brutal part?
I deserve it.
I had the love story once.
And when Cecile died, it felt like the universe closed the door behind her.
My turn was over.
At least that’s what I told myself.
Then Pix came crashing into my life anyway, her heart colliding with mine, and I was whole again.
Like fate looked at all my grief and said nah, fuck you, we’re doing this again.
Gift-wrapped. Fucking destiny with huge eyes, sassy lips, and a heart as big as Bishop Mountain.
Big enough to love me.
Big enough to love my kids like they were her own.
I feel numb.
Sideswiped by a second chance I never saw coming.
Left shattered in its wake.
How the hell did I ruin this?
Ruin us?
Three weeks ago, I would’ve marched into this building ready to fight for my wife.
Ready to burn Manhattan to the fucking ground before I let her go.
But standing here now, soaked in freezing rain with my chest split wide open, there’s no fight left.
Just remorse and regret.
I straighten, prepared to give her whatever she wants.
A divorce.
My balls on a platter.
The goddamn deed to my soul.
Because if losing me is what she needs to be happy again…
I’ll sign the papers in my own blood.
Rain pelts against my face as I stare up at the dark Manhattan sky, standing there like a fucking idiot.
How do I fix this?
“This is the worst day of my life, Cecile,” I mutter hoarsely. “Second only to burying you.”
The words hollow me out the second they leave my mouth.
My chest tightens as I close my eyes against the rain.
“I just…” My voice cracks roughly. “I need another chance. And I know it’s fucked up asking you this, but if anyone knows how to unfuck my life, it’s you.”
Nothing.
Just distant thunder rolling between skyscrapers.
Until a clap of thunder and the heavens unloading with all their might.
For one pathetic second, I consider turning around and going home.
Except what’s the point?
Lately, I’m not much good there either.
A brutal gust of wind whips rain sideways.
“Shit.”
I break for the revolving doors.
The lobby gleams with glass fixtures and obscene billable hours. Everyone inside looks expensive and emotionally stable.
Lucky bastards.
A few people glance up, then quickly pretend they don’t see the dripping wet dumpster fire unfolding in the middle of the lobby.
I make my way to the elevator, and select the very top floor.
Premier Suite?
For what? Throwing yourself through window panes?
By the time the elevator dings on Henry Bloom’s floor, the traces of hope I walked in here with have pretty much left the building.
I arrive at the front desk. Henry Bloom’s assistant is young, polished, aggressively cheerful, and according to the gold nameplate on her desk, unfortunately named Karen.
Her smile falters.
Hmm. I bet I look exactly how I feel.
Like I’m one scotch away from a fucking mental breakdown.
“Mr. Bloom is expecting you,” she finishes a little more carefully.
She steps around the desk and gestures down a long glass hallway overlooking Manhattan.
“How are you today?” she asks professionally with genuine concern.
Jesus Christ.
What kind of psychotic question is that?
I’m about to walk into an attorney’s office to rip out my heart and hand it to him.
How am I?
Part of me wants to get aggressively New York on her ass.
What are you, a cop?
Are you writing a book?
Mind your own business, Karen.
Instead, I give her the internationally recognized response of emotionally repressed men.
“I’m fine.”
She stops outside a massive office and knocks.
It’s not too late to leave.
Seriously. I could still hit the elevator. Fake my own death. Move to Alaska and become emotionally unavailable in a cabin somewhere while bonding silently with moose.
The kids would hate it.
And besides, Pix wanted this.
And it’s time she started getting what she wants.
What she deserves.
“Come in.”
Karen opens the door.
Henry Bloom looks up from behind an enormous desk. His dark tan stands in sharp contrast to his perfectly white hair and sparkling smile.
He gestures toward the chair across from him.
“You’re a hard man to get ahold of,” he says casually.
The door clicks shut behind me with the unmistakable sound of impending doom.
I lower myself into the chair. “Yeah, I’ve had a lot going on.”
Understatement of ten centuries.
Henry folds his hands neatly on the desk and delivers the execution shot with practiced ease.
“Your wife asked me to contact you.”
My heart stops dead in my chest.
Wife.
That’s rich lawyer code for soon-to-be ex.
And why is he smiling?
Stay calm.
Think about the kids.
Launching a billionaire attorney’s desk across Manhattan would almost definitely end in handcuffs.
I can practically hear the kids now.
Dad.
Deep breaths.
Use your words.
“I would’ve preferred reaching you sooner,” he continues smoothly, “but international travel and questionable cell service complicated things. Plus…” His smile widens. “It’s better to handle these matters in person.”
Is it?
Is face-to-face really that much better when you’re about to tase a guy in the nuts?
Henry reaches for a thick leather portfolio and slides it across the desk toward me.
The sight of it makes me physically ill.
I don’t want to touch it.
I rake a hand through my damp hair. “Whatever she wants, I’ll do it. Let’s just…” I huff out a breath. “Get this over with. Tell me where to sign.”
Henry frowns like I’ve started speaking another language.
“Sign?” He leans back slowly in his chair. “There’s nothing to sign. Just open it. That’ll explain everything.”
I drag in a long breath, then flip it open.
I blink slowly.
Then again.
Connor Evans.
Oliver Evans.
Sofia Evans.
What the hell?
Their names stare back at me in crisp black ink beside phrases like educational trust allocations and inheritance structure.
“What is this?”
Henry folds his hands together. “Your wife created a will. And added a trust addendum. For your kids.”
“Our kids,” I correct automatically.
Saying it is so natural, it almost doesn’t register.
He turns the page. “Your children receive the majority of her estate, with provisions for her mother and brother as well.”
“What?”
“Ms. Alvarez doesn’t exactly have millions right now,” Henry continues carefully, “but with the film contracts she’s signing, projections suggest she’ll accumulate substantial assets over the next decade.”
My eyes catch on the date and my entire body goes cold.
I stare at it in disbelief.
“When did she do this?”
Henry doesn’t even glance down at the paperwork.
“After you were married,” he says quietly. “The very next day.”
Warmth instantly spreads through my chest.
Before reality hits like an ice-cold wave.
Pix did this before Iceland.
Before our fight.
Before I told her not to talk to my kids. As if love was a faucet she could simply turn off.
Henry watches me silently while the truth settles over me piece by piece.
She did this when we were still happy.
Before Lumberjack the Destroyer burned it to the ground.
“I think there’s been a mistake,” I say hoarsely. “She just left the country. I’m not sure she wants this anymore.”
“Oh, but she does,” Henry says firmly. “Ms. Alvarez called me yesterday. Confirmed everything herself.”
I whip my head up. “She did?”
“Yup,” he says, deeply pleased with himself. “Paid the final installment in full.”
What the fuck?
“You charged her?” I demand. “Your invoices were supposed to come to me.”
He lifts a hand calmly.
“She insisted. I explained our arrangement, but she said she didn’t want anything questioned later during probate. Especially given the… unusual circumstances surrounding your wedding.”
Something hot and restless starts building beneath my ribs.
“Why wouldn’t she tell me?”
Henry gives me a look over the rim of his glasses. “Maybe,” he says dryly, “someone was a little difficult to reach.”
A kill shot right to the heart.
I sink back slowly into the chair, stunned silence settling over me piece by piece.
While I was drowning in fear and blowing our lives apart, my wife was quietly building our future.
All of us.
There would never be a version of Pix where she didn’t put the kids first.
Not ever.
And there will never be a version of me that doesn’t love her.
“God,” I mutter, rubbing a hand down my face. “I’m such a fucking idiot.”
“If you ask my wife,” Henry says pleasantly. “Most men are.”
All of a sudden, I see it so clearly.
Loving Pix was never the problem. The fear of losing her was. So either fear is my sinkhole, or love is my strength. I can’t do both.
All of a sudden, a weight lifts. Ten pounds lighter, I grab the portfolio and race for the door.
“I gotta go.”
“Good.” Henry reaches for another file. “Now I can get back to my regularly scheduled program of prenups and people who genuinely can’t stand each other.”
And somewhere between the forty-third floor and the lobby, a laugh punches out of me.
Sharp and half-hysterical.
Because my life is about to become one long emotionally loaded scavenger hunt.
First, I have to find Pix’s ring.
Then Pix.
Then somehow convince the woman I love to let me give her the biggest, most ridiculously over-the-top, kid-coordinated wedding of her life.
And come hell or high water, she’s going to love every goddamned second of it.