Page 125 of No Headlines Please

Fuck the brand. I still waited.

Her chin lifted. "And she did love you. Surely you can admit that much."

I admitted no such thing. Maybe it was true. Maybe it wasn't. But in the end, it didn't matter, because Sloane's financial fuckery with the wedding had given me the out I'd been wanting.

And I had wanted it.

I just didn't realize it, that's all.

Oddly enough, it had taken someone else – not Ryder, but Delaney – to make me understand that I'd been looking for an escape hatch all along.

Fuckery or not, I never would've said "I do."

This was something I'd realized nine days ago, when Delaney Sinclair had officially left Chicago.

Call me an asshole, but I'd cared more about Delaney's departure than I'd ever cared about the wedding.

Into my stubborn silence, Mother continued. "And she wouldn't be writing that book at all if only you'd handled it better."

"Handled it how?" I asked. "By marrying a cheat?"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," she said. "It's not like she was sleeping with her personal trainer."

I shrugged. "Not that you know of."

"Don't be crude." Her mouth tightened. "I'm just saying, cheating with money isn't the same as actual cheating. And you remember how things were with your father."

I didn't, actually. Or rather, I didn't remember much of anything firsthand. I'd been only four years old when he'd died in some yachting accident off the coast of Greece.

But thanks to photos, I could picture him just fine. Or hell, I could practically see him in the mirror, because unlike my brother, I looked almost exactly like him.

His death wasn't the only thing that had happened half a world away. My parents had spent very little time together.

One time, as a teenager, I'd spent a rainy afternoon digging through the family's media archives. I'd read countless articles, but it was the photos that told the real story. Nearly none of them showed my parents together – or even on the same continent.

Pushing aside the memories, I replied, "Maybe I want something different."

"Oh, please," she said. "You're thirty-three years old. If you haven't found something different by now, I don't know what to tell you."

Delaney was different.

She'd made me feel almost human.

Almost.

To Mother, I replied, "And yet, you're about to tell me plenty."

"Only this." She gave me a long, penetrating look. "Maybe you're too picky."

"Or maybe I want to pick someone myself." Even so, it wasn't lost on me that I'd come dangerously close to letting the family make one of the most important decisions of my life.

At the time, it hadn't seemed like a big deal. My logic had been simple. I didn't believe in love, so I hadn't been giving anything up.

Or at least, that's what I'd told myself while slipping that engagement ring onto Sloane's finger.

But then, when it came time for the other ring, I'd balked.

Balked and walked.