Page 129 of The Temporary Bride

When I finish, Ivy doesn’t say anything for a little while. She just wraps her arms around me and pulls me into a hug, careful of my bruises. The comfort of the gesture breaks down the last of my composure, and I sob into her shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, Chloe,” she murmurs, rubbing my back lightly. “You’ve been through way too much this week.”

Eventually, my tears slow, and I pull back, wiping my eyes. “God, it’s only been a week.” I sniff, trying to pull myself together. It’s difficult, and the reminder of how short the timespan has been doesn’t make it any easier.

It took less than a week for my life to fall apart. I should’ve known it was all too fragile.

“I can’t tell you what to do,” Ivy says. “You need to follow your heart and do what feels right for you.”

I take a sip of the tea, swallowing hard past the tightness in my throat.

Ivy pauses, taking a deep breath. “But I’ve known the Thorne brothers for a long time.” She rolls her eyes, a small smile playing on her lips. “Long enough that they all see me as some sort of dorky younger sister. None of them seem to realize I hit puberty years ago.”

I laugh, a small, fragile sound that barely covers the ache in my chest.

Ivy’s smile fades and she looks at me seriously. “But in all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen Tristan look at anyone the way he looks at you. Whatever else happened, there’s something real there.”

Her words slip between my bruised ribs and take up residence in my chest, making my heart stutter. I want to believe her, to hold onto the possibility that there’s still something worth saving, but the pain and betrayal feel like too much.

“Do you really think so?” I whisper.

She nods, squeezing my hand. “I do. But it’s up to you to decide what you want and what you’re willing to fight for.”

I take a deep breath, the words settling into me. A question bubbles up, and before I can second-guess myself, I ask it.

“How does he look at me?”

She smiles. “Like he doesn’t know how to exist without you.”

I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t that. I clench my jaw against the ache in my chest, looking down at the bedspread so I don’t have to meet Ivy’s earnest gaze.

I spend the next several days with Ivy, trying to recover from the injuries while also trying to navigate the storm inside me. My body is mending well, the wounds healing, but the pain in my heart feels like it’s only getting worse. It’s hard to breathe most days, and it has nothing to do with the ribs I cracked. It’s as if there’s something heavy pressing down on my chest, squeezing the air out of my lungs.

Ivy does her best to support me, her presence a small comfort. She heads out to volunteer at the children’s hospital most mornings, coming back with funny stories about the kids she reads to. But despite her kindness and the effort she makes to help me feel better, I can’t shake the growing sadness. It’s as if each day that passes brings a new layer of grief, a deeper sense of loss I can’t pin down.

Her condo is bright and safe, but it feels like a temporary haven rather than a cure. I want so desperately to find peace, but the more time I spend here, the more I realize the wounds inside me might be more complicated than the ones on the surface.

Once I’m able to walk without crutches and the bruises have faded to a light, mottled green and blue, I brace myself and head to MediaSphere to see my father. It’s something I’ve been dreading, but it’s time. The drive over feels endless, each mile bringing me closer to a confrontation I’m not sure I’m ready for.

I insist on driving myself, rather than having my driver take me. I haven’t been behind the wheel in a while, but as the miles sweep by, I find myself settling into the rhythm.

The MediaSphere lobby is familiar, but not in a comforting way. I get into the elevator, jabbing the button for the top floor and bracing myself to face my father.

I take a deep breath before entering his office.

When the door swings open, he’s there, behind his desk, looking up from his paperwork with a look of surprise that quickly turns into a measured smile. Genevieve is sitting across from him, her eyes flitting to me with a hint of curiosity.

“Chloe!” My father’s voice is a little too enthusiastic, and it grates on me. “It’s good to see you. When are you coming back to work?”

His words hit me like a slap. I had hoped for a moment of real concern, a sign that he cared about how I’m doing, but all he seems interested in is my return to the office. It makes me feel like my value is tied solely to my productivity, like my worth is measured by the work I do rather than who I am.

It hits me that I haven’t seen any of my family since the accident. None of them have seen fit to visit, or even reach out.

The thought stings more than I expected. I’ve been isolated in my own struggle, and now facing my father, I realize how alone I’ve felt through this whole thing. The vacuum of their absence, the lack of support from those who should be closest to me—it’s crushing.

I resist the urge to wrap my arms around my torso and clench my fists at my sides instead. “Sorry, I haven’t had a chance to think about it yet. I’m still recovering.”

My father ignores the pointed reminder of the accident. He nods, but his eyes are already drifting back to the stack of papers on his desk. “Right, of course. But when you’re ready, we’ll need you back. The studio project has been on hold.”