Page 49 of The Boss

I grinned but didn’t let it distract me. “You never talk about your family,” I said after a pause. “What’s their deal?”

Zac hesitated, his fingers idly twirling his chopsticks against the rim of the takeout container. For a second, I thought he might brush it off. But then he sighed, setting the food aside.

“My mom was from London,” he said, voice low. “Came here for a visit, met my dad, and fell hard. Got married fast. And then I came along.”

I stayed quiet, watching him.

“For a while, I think they were happy,” he continued, staring at the ceiling. “At least, that’s what my mom always told me. But my dad—” He let out a humorless laugh. “Turns out, he liked other women too. A lot. And when I was old enough, I started noticing things. Long nights ‘at work.’ Lipstick on his shirts. My mom crying in the kitchen after she thought I’d gone to bed.” His throat worked, but he kept his voice steady. “Eventually, he left. Packed a bag one day and walked out. And then—” Zac swallowed hard. “Then my mom got sick.”

Something tightened in my chest.

“The doctors said leukemia,” he murmured, almost to himself. “But I always believed she died of a broken heart.” He blew out a heavy sigh, like he was trying to force the weight off his chest. “After that, I lived with my grandmother. My dad’s mom. She was the greatest woman who ever lived—loved me unconditionally. She passed a few years ago.”

I didn’t know what to say. So I didn’t say anything. I just curled my arm tighter around him, stroking his hair. For a long moment, Zac didn’t move. Then he let out a slow breath, sinking into me.

“What about your dad?” I asked softly. “Do you know what happened to him?”

Zac snorted. “Got remarried. New family, new life. He reached out a few times, but I never took his calls.” He shrugged, like it was no big deal, but the tension in his shoulders told a different story. “Last I heard, he lives somewhere in Virginia. That’s about all I care to know.”

I tightened my grip on him, my fingers pressing into the warmth of his temples. “Maybe he’s changed. Maybe he regrets the things he’s done.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck. It’s too late for forgiveness.”

“Sometimes we forgive, not for others, but for our own peace.”

Zac huffed, refusing to continue the subject. Then he sighed, tipping his head back to look at me. “See? You’ve got your Hallmark-perfect family, and I’ve got my family-sized trauma pack. We balance each other out.”

I tried to smirk, but it felt off. Instead, I only stared at him, my chest aching with feelings I was afraid to confess.

After a moment, Zac shifted, rising from my lap to press a slow, lingering kiss against my throat. I pulled him up until we were facing each other, eyes locked, breaths mingling. Then I leaned in and kissed him, slow, soft, just a slide of my lips over his.I love you, the kiss said.I love you so much.

Zac moved even closer and pulled me into a tight hug, pressing me into his chest.

The rain kept falling outside, soft and steady, and for a long time, we just stayed like that. Wrapped up in each other. No past, no future—only now.

22. Zac

Thanksgiving with Chantelle’s parents was an exercise in precision. Everything was calculated—the seating arrangements, the menu, the conversation. The air smelled of roasted chestnuts and spiced bourbon, the scent thick enough to cling to my clothes. The dining room was cavernous, lined with antique walnut furniture and spotless white trim, the long mahogany table set with fine china and polished silverware that probably hadn’t seen a dishwasher in decades.

Chantelle’s mother, a crisp, well-preserved woman who looked like she stepped out of a New England lifestyle magazine, played the gracious hostess, keeping the wine flowing and the conversation controlled. Her father, a square-shouldered banker with a jaw like granite, discussed market trends between bites of dry turkey.

Chantelle, composed and poised to conquer, steered the discussion toward the wedding, the guest list, the budget, the catering. She spoke in clipped, assured tones, nodding along as her mother suggested vendors and her father mentioned tax benefits. She barely looked at me, like I was only there to fulfill a role she’d designed and little else.

Did she sense a difference in me? She wasn’t the type to ask questions she didn’t want answers to, but she wasn’t stupid. Maybe she suspected something. Maybe she didn’t care. I thought she loved me, but I’d come to realize that love had never been the foundation of our relationship, not in the way that made people reckless, foolish, desperate. She cared for me, sure, but she cared more for what I represented—the power couple we would become, the envious glances at black-tie galas, the jet-set life we could build.

And me? I sat there, listening to her plan our future, wondering if that was the life I wanted to live. I made the appropriate responses at the right times. Nodded when I was supposed to. Smiled when she mentioned her father’s latest real estate venture. Let her palm slide over the back of my hand as she went over seating arrangements and floral options. Yet something felt off. Not wrong. Not bad. Just… off.

Her fingers were soft, precise, controlled. Methodical. I should have felt comforted by her touch, reassured. Instead, I registered it the way I registered the weight of a watch on my wrist—present, expected, but hardly worth thinking about.

Which was stupid. Because it was Chantelle. My fiancée. Chantelle, who was perfect in every way. Smart, ambitious, stunning. I loved her.

Didn’t I?

* * *

The Monday after Thanksgiving, I arrived at work early. The place was quiet, the hum of the heating system filling the stillness, the scent of freshly brewed coffee lingering from the breakroom. Chris wasn’t there yet, his desk empty as I passed it on the way to my office.

Once inside, I shrugged off my coat, rolling my shoulders as I settled in at my desk. Anticipation coiled low in my stomach, an insistent, restless thrum. Four days without him had stretched unbearably, each hour dragging like a lifetime. I’d spent them playing the role I was supposed to play—dutiful fiancé, respectable businessman—but my mind had drifted too often, my body remembering a different kind of warmth, a different kind of surrender.

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