Page 70 of The Temporary Bride

There’s a question I’ve never asked her, though, one that’s been sitting at the back of my mind for years. We’ve never gone there before, maybe out of mutual understanding or a shared agreement to leave painful memories alone. But the conversation is already close to that line, and I can’t ignore it.

“What about you?” I ask, clearing my throat.

“What do you mean?” Her brows knit together, lips pursed.

“What was it like?” I get the words out before my better judgment can shut me up. “Being married to someone you didn’t love for so many years?”

A flicker of surprise crosses her eyes, then disappears. She seems lost in her own thoughts, her gaze distant. When she finally speaks, her voice is measured and quiet.

“Who says I didn’t love your father?”

Her response catches me off guard.

“I mean, I know it was an arranged marriage.” I speak slowly. “I figured you two were more like business partners.”

“It was an arranged marriage,” she confirms with a nod. “But I loved your father. I loved him more than words could ever express.”

The emotion in her voice is striking, the honesty of it. There’s something open in her words, a vulnerability that shows me what I never managed to see.

“He was a complicated man.” Her voice carries sadness and something else underneath it. “Difficult to get close to, yes, but he loved with his whole heart. He loved hard, and intensely. Being close to him was like being close to—to fire.”

I lean forward, drawn in despite myself. I’ve never heard her speak this way before.

“We fell in love at the beginning.” Her voice softens. “But then things started to shift. Your father became obsessed with work, and we didn’t take care of what we had like we should have.”

I can feel the regret in her words, everything she hasn’t said for years.

“It stayed there between us, but it stopped growing.” Her voice falters slightly. “We were so focused on the day-to-day responsibilities of life that we forgot to put each other first. It was always there, but it never… grew.”

A quiet sadness settles over her face, and my chest constricts, filling me with an urge to ease some of the pain. I reach out, my hand finding hers, and give it a squeeze.

The waiter interrupts the moment as he comes up to our table, flipping open a notepad and clearing his throat. I pull back and look over the menu while my mother gives her order. When the waiter’s eyes turn to me, I ask for a black coffee and a Caprese salad.

We eat in relative silence, with occasional small talk. I tell my mother about the progress of Eclipse Studios, and she listens with interest. We don’t bring up my father again, but her words still echo through my mind as we finish our food and the waiter clears our plates.

As my mother and I rise from our seats, getting ready to leave the restaurant, something close to calm settles over me. Lunch has been a break from the noise in my head, a few minutes away from it all.

But as we make our way toward the exit, that calm crumbles.

There, at the hostess’s stand, is Iris.

She’s in a tailored outfit that shows off her slender figure. Her flame-red hair is slicked back into a tight ponytail, her angular face on full display. A fitted black blazer with sharp lapels adds a touch of authority to her appearance, and a thin gold necklace sits against her slender neck, its pendant glinting in the light.

Discomfort shoots through me as I recognize the necklace. It’s one I got her, a birthday present from years ago. I wonder if she put it on for a reason. If she somehow knew she’d run into me here.

That’s impossible, of course, but still… avoiding Iris seems impossible too.

I remember Chloe’s envious recounting of her run-in with Iris at the gym, and my jaw tightens.

My ex spots me almost instantly, her eyes locking on mine. A smile twitches at the corners of her red-lined lips.

“Tristan!” She lifts a hand to wave. “What a surprise to see you here.”

She comes toward me with a smile full of false warmth, and tension coils in my chest. I want to put distance between us, as fast as possible. There’s no need for pleasantries with someone who has been so actively unpleasant.

“Congratulations on your wedding.” Her smile shifts into an ironic smirk. “I saw your photos online. You looked great.”

I give her a tight-lipped nod and step back slightly. “Thank you.” My tone has no warmth in it. “Excuse me.”