Page 59 of Blind Prophet

“No, it’s fine.”

She might have said something more, she might not. But she hadn’t been fine. Why hadn’t I seen it? I disregarded garments as being immaterial.

But our marriage didn’t end over a disagreement on attire. I heard her, but I didn’t listen. I grew up with public interest in my family. With our marriage, she was thrown into the spotlight, and I expected her to deal with it. Perhaps my father steamrolled her. He handled her the way he handles everything. I saw it and did nothing. Hell, maybe I steamrolled her. I begged her to marry me within months of meeting her in a bar.

“What’re you thinking?” Her voice pulls me out of the memory.

I swallow, hesitant. But why hesitate? There’s nothing to lose here. I lost years ago.

“That I amend my statement from earlier. When you left, I should’ve followed. Moved us to another country. Become a professor somewhere or something.”

“A professor.” She’s mocking me. That’s fine. “Are you kidding?”

“You could’ve pursued what you wanted.” It would’ve been a better choice. What the hell was I expecting when she quit her job because the paparazzi hounded her, making her associate-level job impossible while I was off working fifteen-hour days?

“You needed to prove yourself to your father. And you did, didn’t you?”

“Did I?”

“You founded Zenith. You’re chairman of the board at Bedrock Advisory.”

“Nepotism flourishes.” The same argument I’ve had in my head through every board meeting, every acquisition. Even with a global communications empire, I’m still Halston Moore’s son first. The Harvard MBA and Oxford doctorate don’t change that.

“Bullshit. Your father has power, but when he retired, the board could’ve picked someone else.”

Unlikely. “Let’s not talk about my father.”

“Are you not getting along with him these days?”

“Depends on the day.” The wind whistles through the trees, and I listen intently for sirens. Maybe the rescue team won’t use sirens. It’s not like there’s traffic to avoid out here.

Her nails scrape across my cheek. She’s tender, but insistent. With her touch, she pulls me back from my mental confines.

Her hair, understandably, is a mess, but she’s still beautiful. She’s the most stunning when she’s raw and real. I brush some tangled strands behind her ear and see the small pearl earring. Does she still own the diamonds I gave her?

“Dorian?”

Without thinking, I lean in and press my lips to her forehead.

“If I could go back and redo that last year, I would. I closed you out. And I just... Biggest mistake of my life.”

Funny how I grew a business from nothing, but I couldn’t figure out how to keep my wife. Some things can’t be solved with market analysis and risk management strategies.

“Oh, I think it all worked out for you.”

There’s a wry tone I don’t get. I’m cracking my chest open and bleeding here. “What do you mean by that?”

“Supermodels. Actresses. You seemed to do just fine.”

Oh. That. The carefully orchestrated public appearances that kept the papers talking about the billionaire bachelor’s extracurriculars instead of his failed marriage. Every photo op was calculated to project strength, to maintain market confidence, at least until I couldn’t take it anymore and lost myself in an endless succession of conference rooms around the globe.

She’s tense. Avoiding my gaze. There’s no reason to play games. It was a shitty ploy to begin with.

“Honestly?”

“No, lie to me.” The sarcasm is definitely new. I have half a mind to spank her ass.

“I wanted you to see those photos. I hoped you’d get jealous, come back, and fight.” She never even called.

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