Page 104 of Six Month Wife
I zip up the suitcase and set it by the door. A conversation like this can’t be had over the phone. Not with my dad. Not when it’s this important.
He’s the kind of man who thrives on control, who thinks he knows what’s best for everyone around him. If I want him to hear me, I need to be there in person.
It’s not like I have a better plan, anyway. And I need to do something, anything.
I check my phone again—habit, not hope. No messages from Adair. I didn’t expect one, but it still stings.
The silence between us is heavier than anything I’ve ever felt. Not because she thinks I betrayed her, but because I didn’t protect her. I let my father use her like a pawn, and I stood there like I didn’t know how the game worked.
She told me she wants the annulment, as long as we can keep the original terms. No strings. That’s what I offered. So I’ll honor it.
I don’t want it. But I get it.
With all this hanging over her head, the whispers, the articles, the accusations, of course she wants out. Wants space. Wants freedom from being tied to someone like me.
But that doesn’t mean I’m walking away knowing I let my father drag her name through the mud on his way out.
I grab the suitcase and head for the door.
Outside, the breeze hits me—salt and sun and that lowcountry scent that’s somehow become home. I’ve built something here. A job. A life. Maybe even a future.
And if there’s even a chance that the future includes Adair, I need to be the man whoearnsit.
Starting now.
I lock up, load my bag in the car, and get in.
I’m not going to DC to explain.
I’m going to make my father fix it.
The trafficin DC is every bit as miserable as I remember—tight lanes, angry horns, and drivers who treat turn signals like personal weaknesses.
I roll to a stop outside my father’s office, a glass-and-granite monument to ego wedged between a corporate law firm and a high-end steakhouse. Leeland Matthews, Esq., has always had a knack for placing himself dead center in the city’s power grid.
I exit the Uber and stare up at the building.
I didn’t come here to fight. I came to fix what he broke.
Not for me. For her.
I step into the lobby and instantly sense the shift—cool marble floors, espresso bar to the left, a massive oil painting of my father shaking hands with someone powerful and forgettable.
The receptionist clocks me the second I walk in. She doesn’t even pretend to check the calendar. “Conference floor,” she says, pointing toward the elevator.
The ride up is long. I run through the conversation inmy head, trying to keep a lid on the part of me that still reacts to him like he has the upper hand.
I’m not here for his approval. I’m here because his actions hurt someone who didn’t deserve it, and that I care very much about. And he’s going to fix it.
When the elevator opens, I can see straight through the glass walls into his office. He’s pacing his large corner office like he owns the city. He's holding his phone out, speaking loudly to the person on the other end. He sees me step into the hall and lifts a hand to wave me in.
“Hold that thought,” he says into the receiver. “I’ll circle back after this. Let me sit on it for a bit and call you back.”
He hangs up and turns to me with a polished, practiced smile. “Son. What a pleasant surprise. I guess payback for showing up in Palm Beach without letting you know.”
I close the door behind me.
“This isn’t a social visit,” I say flatly. “We need to talk.”
