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Prologue
Duncan Twenty-two years ago
Maria’s voice grates on my last nerve. Six years. Six years I’ll never get back. Marrying her was a mistake from the beginning, although it took me longer than it should have to see exactly what our marriage was. Everything with Maria comes back to money, status or what she thinks being my wife should give her, and lately, I can barely stand being in the same room with her.
The only worthwhile thing to come out of the entire disaster is Declan. My gaze shifts to my five-year-old son sitting at the table, his little legs swinging beneath the chair. He looks enough like me that Kieran likes to joke Maria had nothing to do with making him. Same dark hair and green eyes, and even at five, he spends more time watching the people around him than talking to them. Right now, all that attention is focused on pushing peas around his plate into a little green mountain.
He’s the only person I’ve ever looked at and known without question that I’d burn the world to ash if it meant keeping him safe. Everything and everyone else is replaceable.
“I think we should buy another summer home,” Maria says. Of course she does.
Ever since we sold our first startup two years ago and the money started rolling in, spending it has become her full-time occupation—bigger houses. Designer clothes. Charity galas she doesn’t care about. Country club memberships she treats like trophies.
Status means everything to her. Appearances are more important than family. More important than me. More important than the little boy sitting three feet away, happily pushing peas around his plate because he’s trying to build a tiny green mountain.
I glance at Declan, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth before I can stop it. He’s oblivious to the tension hanging over the table. Good. He deserves to stay that way for as long as possible.
“No,” I tell her flatly. “We already have three houses.”
The word should end the conversation, but it won’t. Maria has never accepted no as an answer, and I already know what comes next: the sigh, the dramatic roll of her eyes, and another carefully rehearsed speech about networking opportunities, investment potential, and how everyone at the club has a summer estate except us. As if owning only three homes somehow makes us poor. I’ve lived this argument enough times to recite both sides from memory.
“I knew you wouldn’t understand.” The edge in Maria’s voice is sharper than usual.
She only sounds like that when she’s run out of ways to persuade me and decides irritation will succeed where charm failed. Without another word, she reaches for the bottle of red wine and tops off my glass before I can stop her. Then she picks up the pitcher of apple juice and refills Declan’s, even though he’s barely made it halfway through the first one.
“Drink your juice, Declan.” He wrinkles his nose and nudges the glass away. “But I’m not done eating.”
Maria’s smile never wavers. “You can finish your dinner after.”
I watch the exchange with mild annoyance. She’s always fussing over pointless things. Declan lets out a tiny sigh, wraps both hands around the glass, and takes a long drink. A knot tightens low in my stomach.
“You don’t understand the way society works. If you were more social, you’d understand these things.”
She lifts her glass of white wine and takes a delicate sip.
I don’t bother acknowledging the insult. Instead, I cut into my steak, determined to finish dinner as quickly as possible.
“You hoard our money.”
“You have full access to our joint accounts.”
Her lips curl into a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“We both know that account is pocket change compared to what you’re actually worth.”
“I don’t think two hundred million dollars qualifies as pocket change.”
The words feel heavier leaving my mouth. An odd wave of exhaustion rolls over me without warning. I blink once. Twice.
The dining room swims for half a second before snapping back into focus. Across the table, Declan has stopped eating. His little elbow rests on the table, his cheek pressed into his palm as he struggles to keep his eyes open. Something’s wrong.
“Daddy…” His voice is barely above a whisper. “I’m tired.”
My fork clatters against the plate. He usually calls me Daidí, but Daddy comes out when he’s hurt, scared, or half asleep and asking me to carry him upstairs. I’ve never heard it sound like this.
I turn toward Maria and find her watching us with a small smile spreading across her face. There’s no concern when she looks at Declan struggling to stay awake. She’s been waiting for this. My gaze drops to the wine and then Declan’s juice as the realization hits me. His head slips from his hand, and fear tears through the haze clouding my mind. “No.”
“Yes, sweetheart.” Maria glances at the Cartier watch wrapped around her wrist, annoyance flickering across her face. “I really should get going. I need to establish my alibi and all that.”
