Present day
“Where’s Greyson?” Libby moaned. Her brother-in-law, Harris, smoothed her hair back from her damp forehead.
“He’s on his way,” Harris promised, and Libby sobbed as she reached for his hand and squeezed painfully. She hated that Greyson wasn’t here. She had tried to ignore the first signs of labor, denying reality because she couldn’t quite believe she would be doing this without her husband.
Harris was like a brother to her. Her child’s uncle. But he wasn’t enough. Greyson needed to be here.
Why had he abandoned her when she needed him most?
“I want my husband.”
Harris made soft soothing sounds. He was trying his best, but Libby wasn’t in the right frame of mind to appreciate that right now.
“I know, Bug. His plane landed an hour ago; he’ll be here soon.”
“He doesn’t want our baby.” The pain was coming almost constantly now. But her admission hurt her so much more than the physical discomfort of labor. A soul-deep, gut-wrenching acknowledgment that had been gnawing at her for months.
“That’s nonsense.” Harris’s voice was crisp and matter of fact. He sounded so confident that Libby could almost fool herself into believing him. “Of course he does. He’s just been busy.”
“No. I can tell. He’s so disinterested, he hates us both . . . I know it.” She was incoherent and irrational in her pain. All she knew was that she was about to have her first child, and her husband wasn’t with her. He wouldn’t be there to see his son or daughter come into the world. She had known something was wrong—had known it since she’d first announced her pregnancy—but she had used the same excuses Harris was now employing. Greyson was busy, he was under stress, he was traveling a lot . . . so many excuses. None of them true.
All rational thought fled when the pain changed, became deeper, more agonizing.
“Not long now,” the doctor advised. “You’re fully dilated, Olivia. Time to push.”
“I can’t; he’s not here yet. He’s going to miss it.”
“It’s okay, Bug,” Harris comforted her gently. “He’s trying his best to get here, and I know he’ll be gutted to miss it. Do you want me to get your mum?”
Libby was barely able to focus on the question, but she shook her head.
“You know she’s squeamish.” She gasped, her hand tightening around his fingers for a few moments as she rode out another swell of pain. “Tina here?” Tina was her best friend and had attended half of her birthing classes with her. Harris had attended the other half, filling in for his always-absent brother.
“She’s on her way, but I don’t think she’ll get here in time.” This baby definitely wasn’t wasting any time. Libby had always heard that first births took a long time, but this was a very hasty affair. Barely six hours had passed from the first contraction to now.
“Then you’re the guy,” she told Harris with a grimace of pain, and he nodded, his grip on her hand tightening.
“Well, you heard the doctor, Bug. Time to push.”
She didn’t want to. How could she? A father needed to see his child come into the world. But in the end the overwhelming need to push overruled all else, and Libby did what instinct dictated.
Hours later, after the initial excitement of showing her baby off to her parents, her in-laws, and Tina, Libby woke from an exhausted sleep and blinked into the gloom of the room. It took her a moment to orient herself, and she tensed when a confused glance to her left confirmed her husband’s presence. His face was grim as he stared off into the middle distance. Completely identical to Harris but so unmistakably Greyson.
“Did you see her?” Her voice was hoarse, and she absently noted that she was thirsty. His eyes shifted to hers.
“Yes.” His voice was curt, displaying absolutely no emotion.
“She looks like you.”
“Does she?” Still in that horribly cold voice.
“I think so.”
“Then she looks like Harris, too, doesn’t she?”
“I suppose so,” she said, a bit baffled by the fact that he felt the need to point that out. “I missed you. I wanted you to see her come into the world.”
“Shit happens,” he said with a dismissive shrug, looking like he had not one single regret at missing such a momentous occasion.
“I asked you not to go. I told you I was due soon.”
“And I told you it couldn’t wait. Ten million dollars disappeared; I had to get to Perth to figure out what the fuck was going on down there.”
“Harris could have gone,” she pointed out. In fact, Harris should have gone. As the CFO of the Chapman Global Property Group, he was the obvious choice to deal with an embezzlement problem. In fact, she was sure that any of their executives could have handled the problem without either of the Chapman brothers getting directly involved.
She licked her dry, chapped lips, desperate for a sip of water, and was about to ask Greyson to pour her a glass, but his icy indifference made her hesitate.
He doesn’t want to be here.
It was obvious in the tense set of his jaw and the bleak coldness in his elusive gaze. He sat stiffly, his shoulders straight and his spine barely touching the backrest of the chair. Greyson had always been a little unapproachable, but this was something else entirely. This was a stranger. A man who looked like he had never touched her with any tenderness or passion. A man who looked like he barely knew her and didn’t much care to.
His gaze shifted and made contact with hers, and in a moment of absolute and stunning clarity, she understood that this man—her husband—hated her. The knowledge stole her breath, and she gasped, her eyes flooding with tears at the shocking revelation. She had never fooled herself into believing that he loved her, but she’d always thought he liked her or at least had some measure of fondness for her.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, likely in response to her tears. His voice was as indifferent as the rest of him, and she knew he didn’t care what her answer would be.
“I-I was thinking . . . we never discussed names,” she prevaricated hastily, needing a moment to gather her thoughts and emotions. His brow kinked, the only expression he ever allowed himself. “What should we name her?”
He shrugged. The gesture was disdainful and disinterested at the same time.
“You choose.”
“But . . .”
“Name her whatever the fuck you want,” he snapped, the ice cracking and allowing her a glimpse into the terrifying darkness lurking beneath. The profanity shocked her, as Greyson rarely swore. Harris was the earthier of the two and could swear up a storm at the slightest provocation. Greyson had a great deal more restraint than his ten-minutes-younger brother.
Libby struggled to push herself up, and he didn’t move a muscle to assist her.
“Okay, Greyson, what the hell is your problem?” she wheezed, after—with a great deal of difficulty and indignity—managing to lift herself enough to feel less vulnerable.
“Not sure what you mean.”
“You know exactly what I mean,” she snapped, folding her arms over her chest and wincing a little when she brushed against her oversensitive nipples. They would be bringing the baby in for a feeding soon. Before, she had been excited for Greyson to witness that, at least, since he had missed so much else, but now she no longer knew what she wanted. All she knew was that she had to figure out what was going on, and soon. They couldn’t continue like this. “You’ve been cold and distant and not the slightest bit interested since I told you I was pregnant. And I want to know why!”
He smiled . . . if one could call it that. A frigid, joyless baring of teeth that looked terrifyingly sinister on his gorgeous face.
“Because it doesn’t interest me. None of this interests me, not you and not your child. I was hoping you’d come clean, but I see you’d just happily continue with this ridiculous charade if I allowed it.”
“What are you talking about?” Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, and suddenly her thirst felt uncontrollable. She desperately wanted that water, needed it, focused on it to the exception of all else. Because it was so much better to concentrate on her raging thirst and the currently unobtainable water than it was to look into her husband’s hate-filled dark-blue eyes. She didn’t want to hear what he had to say—she knew it would be ugly and hurtful and would finally damage what was left of their relationship beyond repair.
“Hello, Mummy . . . look who’s awake and hungry!” A cheerful voice sliced through the oppressive tension like a machete, and Libby jumped. Greyson shifted his hostile gaze toward the doorway, where a nurse was wheeling a crib into the lavish private hospital room. The woman’s eyes were trained on the tiny, pink-wrapped bundle in the crib, which thankfully allowed Libby a moment to regroup and plaster a smile onto her face.
The smile became genuine when the pleasantly rounded, apple-cheeked middle-aged nurse lifted the infant and gently handed her over to Libby. Avoiding Greyson’s intense stare, Libby kept her focus on the adorably scrunched-up face of her gorgeous daughter.
“Hey there, sweet thing, are you hungry?” she asked gently. “Oh my God, you’re so beautiful.” The last was breathed reverentially as she unwrapped the folded blanket and once again took inventory of those perfect little fingers and toes, that delightful button nose, the pair of confused milky-blue eyes, and the tuft of black, downy hair on a perfectly round little head. Libby would have to say that this was probably the most perfect baby that anyone had ever birthed ever.
She tried to share a smile of delight and wonderment with Greyson and found him glowering at their tiny daughter like she was a strange and particularly unattractive species of insect. Libby hugged her baby close to her chest, immediately feeling the overwhelming urge to protect her from the borderline hostility she saw in her husband’s eyes.
The nurse was bustling about, helping Libby sit up a little straighter, elevating the hospital bed so that her back was supported.
“Do you need help feeding her, or do you think you can cope?” the woman asked brightly, and Libby shook her head, her eyes on the baby, who was already starting to root against her chest.
“I think we’ll be fine.”
“Congratulations, Daddy.” The nurse finally acknowledged Greyson’s brooding presence, and her bright smile dimmed a bit when she received nothing in response. “Um, so I’m Sister Thompson. Press the call button if you need me.”
She cast another uncertain look at Greyson before leaving.
Libby concentrated on her baby’s needs, because that was so much better than dealing with Greyson right now. She unbuttoned her pajama top and gently directed her daughter’s seeking mouth toward the nipple. The infant latched on greedily, and soon the room was filled with nothing but the sounds of her suckling and contented little snuffles.
Libby couldn’t stop touching her, brushing her thumb over the baby’s downy cheek, then the silken fluff of her black hair, the barely there brows, and her sweet nose, which looked like it would eventually take Greyson’s perfect shape. She lifted the warm, sweet-smelling bundle slightly so that she could drop a kiss onto her brow.
“You need a name, sweetheart,” she whispered against the soft skin of her baby’s head. “What about Clara?”
She deliberately chose a name she knew Greyson hated, wanting some reaction from him. Something that would show that he cared. If he protested against the name, at least she’d know he was interested, that he wouldn’t want his daughter named after his and Harris’s much-despised childhood nanny.
But he said not one word, and she lifted her eyes to his face. He was staring at the baby, his gaze hooded and his expression blank.
“Greyson?” she whispered, wanting him to look at her, to tell her what was wrong. He lifted his eyes, and all that frigid hostility came flooding back. She started shaking, feeling that ice settle into her bones.
“I’m going to get some coffee,” he said abruptly, shoving himself out of the uncomfortable-looking chair. It looked too small for his massive frame. Strange how that worked: Harris was the same height and size as Greyson, but she hadn’t feared for the chair’s immediate future when he’d been sitting in it earlier.
Greyson always seemed so much larger than life. At least he did to her. He had always been the one she’d been drawn to, even when they were kids. He’d been the broody twin, the one who would nurse a grudge and seethe in silence for hours. Harris had been, and still was, the complete opposite. His temper would boil over, and he’d have a good old rant and then go back to being his jovial self in very short order. The twins were as opposite as night and day when it came to temperament.
Growing up, Libby had always been fascinated by Greyson’s mysterious silences. Harris had never interested her in the same way. Four years younger than the brothers, Libby had known the twins her entire life but had never been a part of their social circle. Even though she had attended the same private school they had—a stipulation in both her parents’ employment contracts—she had never really belonged. Only Martine—Tina—Jenson, also ostracized from the twins’ glamorous clique of friends, had befriended her.
Libby and the twins had played together at home, of course, but when the boys had reached their teens, they had started hanging out with their social equals, had attended parties and events that nobody had ever bothered inviting Libby to. Harris had happily given her the details her voyeuristic, envious heart craved, and she would listen breathlessly and gawk at the pictures on his phone.
At twelve she had taken to following Greyson around, happy to watch him while he sunbathed at the pool, content to sit a few meters away while he studied in the garden, satisfied to gaze at him while he ate whatever quick snack he had mooched off her mother. Surprisingly, Greyson had allowed that to go on for a couple of unhealthy years before seemingly getting sick of her. Which had led to the lowest, most humiliating point of her relationship with him. She could still hear the disgust in his voice when he’d flat out called her creepy and commanded her to stop “stalking” him.
She shook her head now at the ridiculous child she had been. Libby had left for culinary school four years after the boys had gone to college. She had set aside her childhood infatuation with Greyson Chapman and had instead focused on building a reputation as a pastry chef.
She had dreamed of opening her own dessert bar and had worked brutally long hours in the kitchens of some of the top restaurants in Paris, Rome, and London, striving to achieve that goal. Until eleven months ago, when all of that forward momentum had come to a grinding halt. Two months after meeting him again, she had found herself married and—as she would later discover—pregnant. Or maybe that was pregnant and married. She had never been entirely sure of the timing. But this little one had been born just over nine months after their rushed wedding.
Maybe Greyson felt trapped, forced into a life that he’d never really wanted. But he had pushed for the marriage. They had seen each other every night for two months after that rooftop party, and he had mentioned—sometimes practically demanded—marriage every single night of their “courtship.” If nearly two months of constant sex—and little else—could be considered a courtship.
Libby had finally caved because her infatuation had returned with a vengeance, and it had felt more intense with sex thrown into the mix. It had started to feel perilously close to love. And because he had made her feel so damned special, with his slavish attention to her every little need, both in bed and out, she had wondered if he was verging on feeling the same way about her.
She thought back to those first few months of marriage. Everything had seemed fine. She had been dazed by the speed of their nuptials, and they had been dealing with parental disapproval on both sides—the only one who had seemed truly happy for them was Harris. And despite her relative inexperience, the sex had been off the charts. Even though her entire life had been devoted to her craft, without much time for intimate relationships, Libby had known that what she had with Greyson was rare and uniquely intense.
When Libby had discovered that she was pregnant, she had thought they could actually make something of their marriage. It hadn’t been planned and had definitely put her career on hold, but Libby had been ecstatic at the thought of a baby.
Greyson had not been as thrilled.
But she had expected his attitude to change, soften perhaps, as her pregnancy advanced. Instead, he had retreated further and further from her. Leading to today. To this moment . . .
Where it appeared that her husband hated her.
And their baby.
He returned ten minutes later, by which time the baby had been fed and burped already. Libby was staring down at her beautiful daughter raptly when Greyson reentered the room. She looked up and held his eyes for a brief moment before allowing her gaze to travel over his face and body. There were circles under his deep-set, dark-blue eyes, giving his handsome face a gaunt appearance. He looked absolutely exhausted; his strong jaw was blue with stubble, and his thick, silky black hair stood up in tufts. He had clearly agitated it with his fingers, as he was wont to when he was stressed or tired. He was wearing a gray, pin-striped, Dior three-piece suit, but half of his pale-blue shirt hem was untucked and hanging over the front of his waistband, his tie was askew, and as she watched, he tugged his jacket off and threw it over the back of the visitor’s chair, rolling up his sleeves to reveal his tanned, corded forearms. She loved his arms and hands—they were so strong and capable. In the beginning, she had often lain wrapped in those arms, running her fingers over the veined ridges on his hands.
She couldn’t remember the last time she had done that. They hadn’t been that close or intimate in months.
His cool gaze dropped to the baby’s sleeping face.
“Would you like to hold her?” she asked, her voice low, and his eyes snapped up to hers. Something resembling horror roiled in those dark-blue depths.
“She’s asleep, I don’t want to disturb her.” The panic in his tone melted her heart—he was terrified. Greyson probably had the same reservations and doubts she had about being a good parent. Why hadn’t she realized that before? It was easier for her to adjust and to love this little stranger thrust so suddenly into their midst. She had carried the baby under her heart for months. Greyson hadn’t had that luxury. He probably just needed a chance to develop the same bond with his daughter.
“You won’t,” Libby reassured him gently, tilting the precious bundle toward him. “Meet your daughter, Greyson.”
He stiffened, his face closing up tighter than a fist, while the panic in his eyes transformed to something close to revulsion. No, this was not the usual first-time father fears. This was something else.
“Greyson? What’s going on?”
“I know she’s not mine, Olivia,” he said, his voice emotionless, his face frozen into a mask of indifference . . . but his eyes. So much hate and rejection.
It distracted her so effectively that it took a second for his words to sink in. And when they did, she didn’t react, didn’t move, didn’t do anything but stare at him for an endless moment. She understood the words but couldn’t quite fathom the meaning. She broke down the statement and tried to restructure it in a way that would make sense. Because currently, it was all wrong and couldn’t possibly be what he had meant to say.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” she finally admitted, wondering if she was developing some kind of aphasia. Hearing things wrong. It could happen. A complication of childbirth. For a second the possibility seemed so real—more real than what she’d actually thought she’d heard—it terrified her.
“I can’t have children,” he said, still in that terribly controlled voice. Libby continued to stare at him, completely confused. What was he saying? She shifted her gaze to her baby and then back up to his face.
Did he mean that he didn’t want children?
“What?”
“For fuck’s sake,” he snapped impatiently, finally losing some of that control and shocking her again with his language. “Drop the act, Olivia! I’m infertile, and I don’t know whose fucking kid that is—or maybe I do—but I know for sure that she’s not mine.”
These words were real; she wasn’t imagining them or hearing him wrong. He was actually saying these truly reprehensible things.
“You’re not infertile,” she said, her voice faint. “Of course you’re not. We just had a baby.”
“You have a baby. I have a cheating wife trying to foist another man’s kid off onto me. And I’m sick of this sham.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Olivia, stop this. I’m exhausted—I just don’t have the energy for your games, and I refuse to pretend anymore.”
“If you thought this was all a pretense, a lie, why didn’t you say something before now?” she asked. Her voice lacked heat, sounding as confused as she felt. What was this? Yes, he’d been absent and disinterested during her pregnancy, but she hadn’t ever considered that this was what was churning away just beneath that perpetually moody surface.
“I was hoping you’d both just admit it and release us all from this fucked-up situation.”
“We both? Who’s the other party in this scenario?”
“We can discuss this tomorrow; I’m tired. I’m heading home.”
“No! You can’t just leave after these ridiculous accusations!”
“You can’t deny it, Olivia. The fact is I’m infertile, and you just had a baby. So there’s no way in hell that child is mine.”
“You’re going to regret this, Greyson,” she predicted, the shock and hurt fading a bit to be replaced by absolute fury and indignation. She welcomed those emotions; they made her feel less vulnerable, less fragile . . .
“I really don’t think so, Olivia. My only regret is not ending this farce sooner.”
“I’ll never forgive you for this,” she promised, her voice hushed.
“I’m not the one who needs forgiveness here.” His voice was grating and seemed to scrape across her sensitive nerve endings, leaving her feeling lacerated and raw. He picked up his jacket, draped it over the crook of his arm, and moved toward the door.
“If you leave now, don’t bother coming back.” She wasn’t going to let this hateful, cold man anywhere near her child ever again. He didn’t deserve to be her father.
“Don’t worry, there’s no chance of that,” he said with a humorless little chuckle before giving her his back and striding from the room.
Libby kept her dry, burning eyes glued to his departing figure. Hoping for some sign that he had doubts . . . or regret. One look back. Anything.
But he left without hesitation, and she sagged back in bed, her hold tightening on her defenseless sleeping baby.
Don’t look back!
Greyson kept his eyes fixed forward. He refused to give her the satisfaction of looking back. All these months . . . willing her to just own up to her deception. Wishing both of them would afford him the respect of admitting to their disgusting infidelity.
He hated what they had done to him. Hated that he hadn’t been able to find the words to confront them about it.
Hated them.
He had waited for one of them to admit to the affair, hoping he wouldn’t have to confront them. But neither of them had said a word. They had allowed this day to come. Allowed their baby to be born and expected Greyson to just . . . what? Be her father?
He wasn’t sure when the affair had started. They had always been close. Always been such good friends. It had grated . . . how often Greyson had come home to find him there. So comfortable in Greyson’s home and so at ease with his new wife.
Greyson strode blindly toward the elevator. He was grateful to find himself alone in the metal cubicle once the doors slid shut. He leaned back against the wall and gripped the railing so tightly his palms hurt.
He longed to get home. Longed to close himself off from the world and break something. No. Break everything.
He thought back to the moment he’d absolutely known they were cheating. That day he had seen them having lunch together in an exclusive restaurant. Heads bowed; talking, laughing, whispering . . . so clearly delighted to be in each other’s company. Neither of them had ever been that easy in his company. They hadn’t seen him, and he hadn’t approached them. When he had asked her over dinner what she had done that day, she had lied to him. Blatantly lied. Said she’d had lunch with Tina.
Of course they were cheating on him. Why the fuck else would she lie about having lunch with Harris when she saw him all the time?
The elevator dinged open, and he blindly strode out and toward his car. He climbed in but didn’t start the vehicle; he merely sat behind the wheel, staring blankly out at the almost-deserted basement parking lot.
Greyson hadn’t confronted her about the lie, but that was when he had started retreating. His and Harris’s birthday had been just a few days after that . . . but, knowing that she would feel obligated to celebrate the occasion with him, he had fabricated a two-day business trip on their birthday weekend. He had hated the thought of playing nice with her and Harris. Had absolutely despised the idea of pretending that everything was fine when his life was falling apart at the seams.
After his return from the unnecessary trip, she had presented her news to him like it was some bizarre belated birthday present. He vaguely recalled her nattering on about wanting to surprise him with the news on his birthday. But in the shock of the moment, he hadn’t been paying much attention to anything else she’d had to say. Greyson had loathed the idea of that baby. Of everything it represented.
The baby was here now. And he was shaken to the core by how very much he had found himself wishing that the lie Olivia had concocted was the truth. He had watched, unseen for a few moments, while she had breastfed the baby. And had wished—desperately wished—he had been the one to give her that child.
Harris had given her the one thing Greyson never could. And seeing how happy she was with that baby in her arms made him feel even more inadequate than he had when he had realized that she’d been unfaithful to him. He had never made her that happy. Could never make her that happy.
When Harris returned half an hour later after a pleading phone call from her, Libby simply burst into tears. Harris’s appearance—so painfully identical to her husband’s—finally pushed her over the edge.
“What’s this? What’s wrong, Bug? Is the baby okay?” he asked, all concern, as he wrapped her in his arms. It took a while for her to get the story out, and by the time he managed to decipher exactly what it was she was saying in between the sobbing and stuttering, he had dropped his arms and was staring at her with an incredulous, infuriated expression on his face.
“Wait, are you telling me my idiot brother doesn’t believe that the baby is his?” he asked, searching for complete clarification. And a fresh stab of hurt and humiliation hit her as she nodded.
“What the fuck?” Harris muttered beneath his breath and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. He glared at the floor, shaking his head, obviously as confused by this as she was.
“H-he says he’s infertile,” Libby whispered, plucking a tissue from a conveniently placed box on the bedside table and blowing her nose messily. “I don’t understand this at all. I swear to you, I haven’t slept with anyone else.”
“Libby, I wasn’t even thinking that,” Harris promised, and his resolute faith in her made her resent Greyson’s lack of trust even more. “Look, we’ll get to the bottom of this, okay? There has to be some kind of misunderstanding.”
“No misunderstanding at all. Your brother’s an asshole, and I’m ending this disaster of a marriage as soon as I can.”
“No. You can’t do that. Just give him a chance to fix this.”
“Harris, what does it say that you’re here fighting for his marriage while he hasn’t even bothered to touch his own child? Don’t you get how completely bizarre that is? I don’t care about his reasoning—we never should have married. I don’t know why he pushed for it in the first place.”
“I thought maybe it was because of the pregnancy,” Harris confessed, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.
“Initially, I did too. The first time we slept together was . . .” She hesitated, blushed, and then rolled her eyes at her own stupid embarrassment. “It was my first time. Don’t ask,” she forestalled him, lifting a hand when Harris frowned and looked like he was about to comment on that. “I was celibate and not on anything. He used a condom, but it broke. He didn’t seem overly concerned about it, but immediately after that he mentioned marriage. I figured it was because of the broken condom; I mean, before that night I had always believed that he felt nothing but indifference toward me. I brushed it off . . . but he kept asking. Even when it became evident that I wasn’t pregnant after that first mishap. I know I should have refused his proposal, but he made it seem—ugh, you know Greyson—he made it seem so logical. Like I’d be silly not to agree to his proposal.
“I hesitated at first, but the way he was—we were—together . . . it felt like something more, something real, was developing between us. It felt like a fairy tale, and I was a complete idiot for allowing my past infatuation to color my decisions. I bought into the ridiculous happily-ever-after fairy tale. I foolishly thought that maybe he harbored similar rose-colored visions of the future. I expected this perfect life with this perfect man, but it was nothing like what I imagined it would be. He worked long hours; he rarely confided in me or spent time with me. I mean, you saw what he was like, those evenings he’d come home while you were visiting. He’d be so surly and uncommunicative. Barely a hello before retreating to his study. We had our moments, but they were few and far between, and nonexistent after I told him about the baby.
“I was such an idiot. I was blinded by my own lust and infatuation. I think, realistically, I knew marrying him was a mistake. I knew I was being stupid, but I thought he liked me, that maybe he could love me. I can’t believe I actually thought we had a plausible reason for marriage. Hindsight tells me I was grasping at straws.”
She shook her head. Disgusted that she had been so stupid at the ripe old age of twenty-six. Stupid and embarrassingly naive.
“Now he says he can’t have children, and I-I’m just so confused. I don’t know why he pushed for marriage. I don’t know what he wanted or wants from me. All I know is that he seems to hate me. And I think—I’m sure, after tonight—I hate him.”
“I know he’s been a moody bastard lately,” Harris said. “More so than usual. He wouldn’t talk to me and has been picking arguments for no reason, but he wouldn’t fucking tell me what the problem is. But there must be something else going on. Let me talk to him and see what’s going on in that head of his. Don’t do anything rash until you’ve heard back from me.”
“Rash? I’m sorry, nothing I do now will be rash . . . he spent the last seven months thinking the absolute worst of me. He never let on, he made me believe that we had something real . . .”
Only he hadn’t. Not really. The first two months of their marriage hadn’t been perfect, but she had told herself they needed to get used to each other, used to married life. It had felt like the start of something potentially good. But now, looking back on that promising beginning, she realized that it had only been sex. Lots and lots of really hot sex. The times not spent in bed, he’d been at work, and they had rarely had any meaningful conversation.
Libby had always known that he was naturally reticent; Greyson had never been one to let anyone—even his own twin—close. He was buttoned down and closed in. She had figured it would take time for him to get used to the idea of having her around, having a mate he could share his thoughts and feelings with.
And then the last seven months, after she’d announced her pregnancy, had been completely joyless and frigid, without even sex to foster the impression of closeness. Now that she thought back on it, she considered all those moments she had spoken to him about the baby, consulted him—despite his blatant lack of interest—on nursery decor, urged him to consider names. She remembered the missed ob-gyn appointments, that first ultrasound test (the one Tina had attended with her), and the scary fall after which she’d started spotting. Her parents, Tina, Harris—even her less-than-friendly mother-in-law, Constance, for heaven’s sake—those people had been there for her. Greyson hadn’t.
Not once.
And Libby had made excuses, while her husband had barely bothered to offer a single one. He was busy; it was a difficult time of transition in the company, with new contracts, old contracts, business meetings/trips/dinners . . . she’d only been fooling herself. He had never shown an inkling of interest in her or the baby.
Their marriage had ended with a positive pregnancy test, and she hadn’t even realized it was dead until now.
“Look, just give me some time to get to the bottom of this. You know how Greyson can be. He never says what he’s really feeling . . .”
“Oh, believe me, there’s absolutely no doubt about his real feelings, Harris. He looked at us like he hated us. He looked at my baby like she was the most repulsive thing on the face of this earth. I won’t have him anywhere near us ever again.”
“Libby . . .” Harris ran a frustrated hand through his hair. He kept it a little longer than his brother did, but the gesture still reminded her of Greyson, and Libby fought back a pang of pure agony as she understood that she would never see her husband again. That the man she’d thought she knew, thought she loved, had never existed beyond her imagination.
“I’m going there right now,” Harris said decisively. “I’ll be back later. Don’t worry, Bug. We’ll get this straightened out.”
Frustrated that he wouldn’t listen to her, didn’t understand, Libby just stared at him, refusing to respond. He would have to see for himself.
Harris squeezed her shoulder and dropped a kiss on top of her head. He hesitated for a moment, looking like he wanted to say something more, before leaving without another word.
Libby blinked back tears as she watched him leave and then dragged out her phone. She scrolled through her contacts before finding the one she needed. The one person she knew she could rely on, who would have her back without question.
“Tina? I need you. Please, can you come back? It’s urgent.”