Page 6 of Temporary Vows

Elodie Harper has always been off-limits to me, and she will remain that way. No matter that my friendship with her brother dissolved as fast and deadly as salt on a snail’s back.

I slow my stride without meaning to, the city blurring at the edges as my thoughts drag backward, uninvited.

It doesn’t take much imagination to guess what happened to her. The signs are all there if you know where to look. She bore the quiet desperation that clings to people who’ve been collateral damage in someone else’s war.

The Harpers losing their business wasn’t just a headline. It was a full collapse. The kind that pulls everyone down with it, whether they deserved it or not. And they blame me.

Elodie was caught in the fallout.

Thinking about her now is pointless.

Still…

I can’t stop myself from wondering what she must have gone through. How did she end up working in a coffeehouse looking like she’s one bad day away from shattering when she had such big dreams?

The thought settles uncomfortably in my chest, so I shove it aside.

Elodie Harper is not my concern.

I’m Dorian Vale. I don’t doconcern.

Elodie belongs to another life. One I cut away without hesitation when it stopped aligning with where I was going.

Whatever happened to her is a problem for another time.

I have bigger problems than ghosts from my past.

Yesterday made sure of that.

The main headline is still burned into my mind.

Dorian Vale having an affair with Grace Astor, beloved widow of Montgomery Astor.

As if those words alone weren’t poisonous enough. The motherfucking press went further—they always do. They suggested that my presence in her life somehowcausedher husband’s death.

Montgomery Astor was revered across the world. But here, he was considered New York’s golden saint. A renowned philanthropist and visionary. A man whose name you don’t get to tarnish without consequences.

I exhale slowly, my jaw clenched as I cross another street, the sound of traffic fading beneath the pulse of my thoughts.

Grace and I were careful. Discreet. We got together after she divorced John.

We weren’t reckless, and we weren’t stupid. Whatever existed between us—however temporary—had nothing to do with Montgomery Astor’s heart giving out in his home on the Upper East Side.

The man was approaching eighty and had several health problems, including chronic heart failure.

Facts don’t matter, though. Not with a family name like mine that attracts gossip.

The narrative has already been written.

I’m the villain.

The ambitious Vale heir who seduced a man’s wife. The convenient scapegoat for a tragedy no one wants to examine too closely. The man whose reputation was already fractured enough that this fits neatly into the cracks.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I don’t need to check it to know who it is.

My father.

He called three times last night and left one long voicemail.