Page 135 of The Temporary Bride

“Your father… he was a difficult man. Even so, I never stopped loving him. Not for a single moment. I know that he loved me too, but he had his own way of showing it—one that was often overshadowed by his work and his need for control.”

She pauses, her gaze drifting to a spot on the carpet. “He became so absorbed in his responsibilities that he forgot how to connect with us. I always hoped he would find a way to bridge that gap, to show his love more openly. But he was too wrapped up in his own world.”

I nod. She wasn’t the only one in the family who felt that distance.

“I was always waiting for that. For him to show how he felt.” My mother looks back up at me, and I can see tears in her eyes, on the edge of falling. “I waited right up until the end.”

I think of my father, who isolated himself so thoroughly from us all. His focus on work, his refusal to open up—he died alone, in a way. The thought is painful, but it’s also a reminder of what I don’t want to become.

I can’t afford to repeat his mistakes. I don’t want Chloe to feel abandoned or neglected. I need to show her that I’m here for her, fully and unconditionally. My father’s inability to bridge the gap between himself and his family left a void that nothing could fill. I can’t let that happen to us.

I take a deep breath, finding a renewed sense of purpose. “Thank you, Mom,” I say, squeezing her hand. “I needed to hear that. I’m going to make things right. And I won’t stop until Chloe knows she’s everything to me.”

My mother smiles at me, dabbing at her eyes with her sleeve. “Good. You’ve got the right mindset. It won’t be easy, but that’s what makes it worth fighting for.”

As I leave my mother’s house and return to the driver’s seat of my Audi, I feel something settle into place.

I know now that I’ve been given a second chance to make things right. My mother’s words, although bittersweet, have lit a fire under me.

I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure Chloe knows she’s it for me—the only woman who’s ever owned my heart.

Chapter 50

Chloe

I wake up to the soft murmur of voices coming from outside the guest bedroom. My ears ring slightly, but the sound fades as I push myself out of bed. I’m still half-dreaming, but curiosity gets the better of me, and I follow the noise toward the living room.

As I step into the hallway, the voices become clearer—Ivy is at the front door, talking to someone in a hushed tone.

I move closer, my steps light on the floor, and peek around the corner to see her closing the door on a man in a uniform. In her arms, she’s holding a massive bouquet of roses.

The blooms are striking—long-stemmed, with a blend of bright yellow and gold petals alongside deep, dark black ones. The contrast is dramatic and beautiful. There are so many flowers that they’re practically spilling out of Ivy’s arms. She struggles to hold all of them.

Ivy shifts them slightly, trying to balance the bouquet. “They’re from Tristan,” she says, a hint of amusement in her voice. “He really went all out this time.”

The sight of the arrangement is overwhelming. I reach out, fingers grazing the edges of the roses, feeling the cool, velvety texture of the petals. The bouquet, the careful combination of colors—they say everything Tristan would say if he were standing here.

“I didn’t expect this,” I say quietly, my gaze fixed on the bouquet.

As my fingers move through the bouquet, they find a gold-edged card nestled among the roses. I pluck it from between the petals.

Tristan’s handwriting is instantly recognizable, strong strokes of black pen across the card.

Chloe,

I know that I hurt you. It’s the biggest regret of my life so far, and believe me when I say that’s a high bar. I want you to know that I’m deeply sorry for everything—I’m so fucking sorry, Dimples.

I’m aware that’s not enough, but I’m committed to doing whatever it takes to make things right. I love you more than words can express, and I’m here, ready to fight for us. I hope these roses can at least show you how much you mean to me, even if only a little.

Forever yours,

Tristan

My chest tightens as I read his note. The words land on something raw, both soothing and stirring up all the emotions I’ve been trying to manage.

I look up to find Ivy watching me with a small, sympathetic smile. “Let me put these in water for you,” she says.

The next day, as I’m adjusting to the strange mixture of hope and hurt, another delivery arrives. This time, there are two dozen more roses, their colors even more striking against the gray of the morning. I take in the sight of them—long-stemmed and bold, gold and black, like the others.