Badly.
“You know, I—” She paused, and now it was her turn to look at the table. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry. For whatever it’s worth, and I know it might not be worth much now, I regret . . . interfering. Owen’s father and I have a strong marriage and a deep friendship, but creating a singular vision from two powerful backgrounds wasn’t easy. He was the scion of the Montgomery Media Group. I was the daughter of Prestons—their rivals from across the pond. Finding a way forward was often painful, especially when it became clear that I possessed a drive and capacity for strategy that he did not. There was a time, before he relented and allowed me to acquire the publications from Montgomery Media that I’d turned around, when I braced for divorce papers at any moment.”
She lifted her eyes to mine. Briefly, the mask was completely gone, and there was only the vulnerable woman underneath, her mouth curved in unhappy memory. “I loved him,” she said finally. “Even at the time, I knew he was the love of my life. And to have this impossible choice driving us apart when we already shared a life and had planned a future together—it was the most unbearable kind of pain. I wanted to spare you that.”
“I think you did,” I said, but she was already shaking her head.
“I should have remembered the rest of my own history. Because my husband and I didn’t divorce. He sacrificed his legacy for my future and has never resented me for a moment. He gave me the gift of support and trust—even in our darkest hour when I was ready to believe the worst of him. I should have been ready to trust him all along . . . and I should have trusted you and Owen to make your own mistakes and find your own way forward. I shouldn’t have asked what I did of you, and I hope that you’ll forgive me for it.”
“I do, Ms. Preston,” I said, and it was the truth. It had been cruel and heavy-handed of her to force me into such a choice, but at least she had gone about it in a direct, honest sort of way. And . . .
“And you were right,” I told her. The admission was painful, but it felt good too. Like a relief to speak the truth out loud. “You were right about Owen, because he did break my heart. He did care more about keeping the peace with you than understanding what I wanted or needed. It was better that it ended now than . . .”
Than what? Than after you gave yourself to him? Than after you fell in love? Because you’d already done those things anyway. It still hurt just as fucking much.
“Than later,” I finished lamely.
She studied me for a long minute and then nodded. “You know yourself better than I do, Tanith. But please consider that I do not know my son as well as I thought I did, and he might be ready to prove both of us wrong. Or maybe I knew the old him. The him before you.”
“Are you telling me to forgive him?”
She lifted an elegant shoulder. “I’m his mother. It’s my job to see him happy.”
A thousand responses crowded against my lips—irritated ones, hurt ones, pleading ones. Finally, I found the most diplomatic one. “First, you wanted me to break up with him. Now you want me to forgive him? That’s very disorienting, Ms. Preston, unfair, too, and I think you know it.”
She didn’t seem to mind my forthrightness—indeed, she actually smiled at it. “What I want or know is irrelevant to the matter at hand. My son can be quite tenacious when he wants to be, as can you, I suspect. I only wish to invite you to consider that Owen and I are both aware of the mistakes we’ve made and hope to do better in the future.”
“The only future I have is here at Gotham Girl and in this industry,” I said with some finality. “There is no future with him.”
* * *
The next few weeks passed in a blur. Between schoolwork, commuting to the city, my usual intern work, judging the “Speak” contest entries, and helping plan the Valentine’s Day party, I was exhausted. Each night, I dropped into bed and fell asleep immediately, and each morning, I woke up feeling like I could sleep for five more days and still be tired.
I needed it that way, though. Memories of Owen—of his low, accented voice; his sensual mouth; his filthy, filthy words—would filter in the moment my thoughts wandered. I’d be riding in the van Dorens’ hired car down to the city and suddenly relive the brutal ecstasy we’d shared inside the pool house. I’d be waiting for a Gotham Girl attachment to load before I sent an email and then hear his laughter, warm and open, in the snowy, morning light of his bedroom. I’d be brushing my teeth and remember how it felt to hold hands on campus, to snuggle against his chest, to feel him stroke my hair . . .
It hadn’t been real, I’d remind myself fiercely. You were just a dirty secret he’d always planned on keeping from his family. But a weak, awful part of me still missed it all. Still missed him.
It hurt loving someone who had hurt you first. It hurt more than anything in the world. So it was better to work and work and work rather than feel anything at all.
Especially since Owen had clearly taken the threats and kotzbrockens, whatever the hell that meant, to heart and had stopped trying to see me. He’d also stopped trying to call or text or DM, and when we saw each other in class, he kept his distance—although I could always feel the heat of his stare on me. As if he were looking at me while remembering every shocking, urgent thing we had done
