Page 157 of The Professor's Wife

For years, I had looked back at that girl and judged her the same way everyone else had.

Sixteen and pregnant.

Twenty and still struggling.

Still angry. Still embarrassed. Still pretending she had everything under control.

By the time Oliver found me, I was exhausted.

I wanted someone to tell me I was intelligent. That I wasn’t wasting my life. That being angry didn’t make me unlovable.

Oliver knew exactly what to say.

He praised the parts of me everyone else complained about. My temper became passion. My stubbornness became independence. The same mouth that had always got me into trouble made me fascinating to him.

At least, that was what I believed.

I thought he saw me.

Maybe he did.

He saw how tired I was. How ashamed. How badly I wanted somebody older and steadier to tell me I was doing all right.

He made himself feel like the answer to every problem I had.

“What are you thinking about?” Tristan asked.

I looked at him.

“My sister.”

It was easier than the full truth.

“And Rowe?”

“And Rowe.”

He reached across the space between us and took my hand.

I let him.

For years, I had called that younger version of myself stupid. I had never given much thought to how young she was.

Oliver had.

He saw where I doubted myself and made himself necessary there.

By the time I understood what he was doing, I had already handed him every part of my life.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

THE PAST

“Another year,” I implored shakily. “Please, Oliver.”

I stood before his desk, my arms crossed and my face streaked with tears. At first, Oliver didn’t look up from the papers. His body was stiff at my intrusion.

I hadn’t knocked.