22. Chapter 22 #3
She makes a sound, breath rushing out as she collapses against my chest. The warm Miami night wraps around us; the distant gala drifts back like a memory. I tip her face up and kiss her—hard, desperate, nothing like the careful lovemaking from last night.
There is no patience here, no control. Just the tide, and the weight of everything between us—the grief and the fury and the love and the loss.
Darcy kisses me back with everything she has, hands fisting in my shirt, body pressing into mine. I can feel her still crying, taste her salty tears in my mouth.
She looks up at me—eyes wet, chest heaving, the moonlight turning her skin silver. "I never meant to—" she starts.
But I stop her. "Don't apologize again."
Her hand finds mine between us, and I hold it against my chest, letting my eyes close to the darkness.
And I stand there in the sand with my wife, thinking about what it means to love someone and not be able to trust them. About whether those two things can coexist. About whether I'm capable of finding out.
When I open my eyes again, I hold her gaze. "I need you to understand something," I say finally.
Darcy’s voice is small when she replies. "Okay."
"This. What’s between us. What I feel for you. None of that is something I can turn off. But I can't—"
My chest tightens, heart thundering between my ears. "I don't know what's fucking real and what isn't. I don't know how much of this was—" I stop.
"None of it was calculated," she says. "None of it. I swear."
"I believe you."
Her breath catches.
"You do?"
For a long moment, I say nothing. I look out at the waves breaking on the shore, at the endless push and pull of the tide.
Suddenly nothing feels solid—the ground, the air, even my own goddamned thoughts.
"I'm standing here trying to process that the man who destroyed my father is yours. But I'm not angry because of who you are."
Her head jerks up.
"I mean, Christ, I'm angry," I say, rougher than I intend. "I'm angry at what he did. Angry at what he cost me." I drag a hand through my hair. "But I'm not blaming you for who he is."
The words hang between us—heavy, complicated.
"You spent your whole life trying not to be your father’s daughter." My jaw tightens. "I know that."
My voice drops. "I'm angry because you didn’t tell me."
Silence presses in.
"You knew," My chest tightens. "And somewhere, you decided I couldn't handle the truth."
"That's not—"
"You decided for me," I say, controlled even as something ugly twists in my gut. "And you decided I wouldn't love you through it."
"I was terrified," she whispers.
"I know." The admission rushes out. "I know you were. But that’s not enough."
I look away, jaw tight. "Darcy…" I exhale slowly. "You really thought I'd turn my back on you? On my own child?"
Her breath catches again.
"I didn't know what finding out would do to you."
"That's the problem." The words leave me before I can stop them. "You didn't trust me enough to find out."
The ocean hits the shore like punctuation.
"We got married because of a goddamned accident," I say. "Fine." My eyes find hers. "But nothing after that was accidental for me."
The admission lands hard. "I chose you."
I shake my head once. "And I don't know what the hell to do with the fact that you never trusted me enough to choose me back."
I scrub a hand across my jaw and exhale hard. "I need time," I say finally. "Need to process this. Need to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do with all of it."
"Declan—"
"But you need to know right now." My voice steadies. "The baby? I want it. There's not a single part of me that doesn't. Whatever happens between us, I'm not walking away from my child. That's not negotiable."
"I know," she whispers. "I didn't think you would."
"But us—" The words feel brittle. "I can't. Not right now. I need to know if I can stop wondering what else you’ll keep hidden from me. I need to know I’m not making the same mistake my father did.”
She nods slowly. "I understand."
That she understands—so completely, without argument—makes everything heavier.
We stand in the sand a few minutes more, her hand still in mine, listening to the tide. Then we walk back to the hotel in silence—shoes in hand, sand on our formal wear, the gala noise growing louder as we approach.
At the terrace steps, she stops. "Declan."
I look at her.
"For what it's worth." Her voice is steady now. The tears are gone. Just Darcy—composed, honest, devastating. "I love you. That was never part of any plan. It was just real. It is real."
"Okay."
She goes up the steps and slips back into the crowd.
I stand there for a long time afterward, listening to the ocean.
I think about my father.
About trust.
About what it cost him.
My father loved a man who smiled in his face, built a business beside him, let him get close—while quietly waiting for the right moment to destroy him.
And I’ve blamed him for it.
For not seeing it.
For trusting the wrong person.
The thought sits ugly in my chest.
Because now here I am.
Thinking about a woman who kept life-altering truths from me.
A woman I still can’t stop loving anyway.
A woman who just walked back inside carrying my child and half my history.
And I try very hard to figure out what comes next.
I don't find an answer.
Not tonight.