He didn’t say a word after he left the shower. Just got dressed and threw on his coat. A minute later, he was gone.
Was he right? Was I a prisoner of my own making?
Looking back, I had a long list of accomplishments. High school homecoming queen, captain of the varsity cheerleading squad, National Honor Society member, Sarah Lawrence magna cum laude graduate, successful realtor, and fiancé of a celebrated attorney.
I’d achieved all this in spite of child abuse, my father’s sudden death, as well as my mother’s murder and sleazy legacy. Yet lurking beneath all the dazzling achievements and ‘atta girl’s’ was a fear so stark and terrifying, I’d buried it as deep as I could—until Trace dug it out.
He’d spoken a hard truth. I had become my own jailer, and it was up to me to free myself. Nobody else could. All my accolades and certificates couldn’t hide the fact that I was just as flawed as everyone else…even my own mother, which meant I had a right—no, a responsibility—to make my own mistakes and not be ashamed of them.
Because I was only human.
When I rolled into the plaza, ten minutes later, I immediately saw Darien’s Mercedes. Spotting me, he climbed out, stood in front of the office, and waited.
One part of me wanted to berate him for the months he’d been lying, while the other refused to point fingers. I’d given Trace my virginity last night; had a few close calls with him even before that.
Saying Darien cheated first sounded juvenile, even to my own ears.
I cut the engine, filled my lungs, and threw the door open.
May as well get this over with now.
Darien lurked on the sidewalk, his hands shoved in the pockets of a blue trench coat. Even with a tan, he somehow seemed pale. His face looked weighted down, and his perfectly clipped chestnut hair was as windblown as the rest of him.
“Shannon….”
I sailed by, head bent, fingers sifting through my keys. “Make it quick. I’m just here for my day planner and Rolodex.”
“You weren’t home. I’ve been calling your cell all night.”
“It’s broken,” I said, my breath fogging from the cold.
“Can you at least tell me where you’ve been?”
I rammed the key into the lock. “You honestly don’t expect me to answer that, do you?”
He dragged a hand down his face. “I was worried sick.”
“As you can see, I’m fine.”
He followed when I nudged the door open. I flipped the light switch and headed straight for my office. Once there, I eased into a chair—mindful of the tenderness between my legs—and gathered my things with ruthless precision. I kept my eyes down, anywhere but on him.
Darien snagged a seat on the opposite side of my desk. “Honey, please. I need to talk to you.”
I stilled, heaved a sigh. “What is it?”
“You can’t know how sorry I am.”
Oh, I did, and strangely enough, I pitied him. The man looked miserable. Lines in his forehead, the ones I’d once thought gave him character, sliced dramatic paths across his tanned face. Shadows underscored his weary eyes.
I was hesitant, but spoke my mind anyway. “I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach yesterday. Before I left the hospital, I had to touch a tree and feel its bark…to be sure it was real…that I was real. How long have you and—”
“She’s irrelevant,” he supplied with a hint of desperation.
“Irrelevant,” I repeated, my eyes never leaving his. The male capacity for sex without love both puzzled and exasperated me. “I doubt Kate shares your lack of enthusiasm.”
His face looked tight with strain. “She was the tabloid source. I confronted her as soon as I knew.”
Swinging. Sadomasochism. The inherent malice behind the lies made sense now.
“She’s in love with you.”
“Yes,” he admitted with a solemn nod. “I didn’t want a lawsuit, so I paid her off. She’s left the firm.”
If anything, I felt sorry for Kate Sims. But one question nagged at me. “It’s obvious your…secret relationship has been going on for a while. Even before us, probably. So why did you ask me to marry you?”
“Love.” He said the word as if I should have known better. “Yes, I was seeing her before you, but it was just sex. Nothing else.”
“Well, I accepted your proposal because…you reminded me of my father.”
His head jutted back. “What?”
“I know it makes no sense, but there you have it. You’re not in love with me. You’re in love with an idea. Truth is, we used each other, Darien. I wanted something you couldn’t give—your undivided attention. I knew this, but I did it anyway, hoping this time things would be different.”
“Different how?”
I sniffed, looked away. “Hoping this time the busy, distracted, and successful older guy would pay attention me. And you….” I sighed. “You wanted a trophy wife—someone from a good family, someone naïve and malleable. But Kate wasn’t that someone.” I served him a frank look. “And neither am I.”
Darien threw up his hands. “I don’t know what you’re going on about, but here’s my truth. I was wrong to put my career first. Just let me make it up to you. I swear I’ll do better.”
I propped my forearms on the desk. “It’s not just that. I’m tired of watching my back. I can’t guarantee that I won’t screw up in the future. And when they hear about us, trust me, it’ll be my fault, regardless. I’m Lilith Bradford’s daughter.”
“But it doesn’t have to be that way. Look, I wouldn’t care if you were the devil’s daughter! I am in love with you. All I want is another chance to prove it.”
Oh, my God, he’s serious. I drew back and with a heavy heart, slowly lifted my left hand for his inspection.
He blinked at the tan line. “Where the hell is your ring?”
“It’s over. I’m telling you now because I’d rather you hear it from me than gossips.” I paused. “I slept with Trace.”
Color drained from his cheeks.
“I’m in love with him, Darien. I-I suspect I always have been.” Then I added, “He didn’t kill Mother, and I plan on finding out who did.”
Comprehension finally dawned in his steel-gray eyes. “You were with him last night?” I nodded. “How long has this been going on?”
For me? A lifetime. Trace was my first love—my one and only true love—but I’d been too blind to see it. “Does that really matter now?”
Visibly stunned, Darien struggled to his feet. He ambled around the desk, sank to the edge, and grasped my hand, his grip unsteady. “I don’t know what’s happening, but I love you. I always have.” He cleared his throat. “Don’t do this.”
Tears pooled in his eyes as I dug the solitaire from my pocket, uncurled his hand, and tucked it into his palm. He drew a sharp breath, closing his fingers around the gem. It made a scraping sound when it came in contact with his fraternity ring.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “We just weren’t meant to be.”
He rubbed his damp eyes with a fist and dropped the ring in a breast pocket. “Guess that answers my follow-up question.”
For the next hour, we spoke in solicitous tones, both of us coming to terms with what would never be, and what never was. We cried together, held each other in grief, in sadness. And for the first time in our relationship, Darien bared his soul, allowing me to see his emotional nakedness and vulnerability. That heartened me most of all.