Page 83 of The Temporary Bride

I toss the diced potatoes into the pan, stirring them with a wooden spoon, the aroma filling the kitchen. I hear the soft pad of footsteps behind me and turn to see Chloe standing in the doorway, her hair tousled from sleep.

She’s wearing nothing but my shirt from yesterday, and holy fuck, I never want that shirt back. It looks so damn good on her. The way the fabric clings to her curves, swallowing her petite frame, makes my heart race.

“Good morning,” I say, unable to keep the admiration out of my voice. “You should wear that and only that, all the time.”

She smirks, a mischievous glint in her eye as she starts to unbutton the shirt, one button at a time. The anticipation builds with each undone button, revealing more of her smooth, tantalizing skin.

When the last button is undone, she lets the shirt fall to the floor in a casual shrug. “Does that mean you don’t like me like this?”

A growl works its way out of me at the sight of her standing there, my shirt pooled around her feet. The spoon clatters to the counter, and my hands are on her before I’ve made any conscious decision about it, lifting her up onto the counter and stepping between her legs.

I kiss her hard, my hands moving over her skin, and then reach down to free myself and pull her closer to the edge. She wraps her legs around me and I press into her slowly, watching her face as I do, and she tips her head back against the cabinet and exhales.

We don’t stay slow for long. I fuck her hard and fast, both of us already wound up, her hands gripping my shoulders, soft little sounds escaping her every time I drive into her. She comes apart around me less than a minute in, her head falling back against the cabinet, and I keep going, determined to get another one out of her before I let myself finish.

I can smell something burning on the stove, but I don’t care. She comes again just like I wanted, her pussy clenching around me, and I grunt as I empty myself inside her.

As we breathe hard in the aftermath, I reach over and turn off the burner.

The potatoes are done for.

After pulling out and helping her clean up a bit, I toss them in the trash. Then I wash my hands and start over with something simpler, cracking eggs into the pan while Chloe disappears upstairs to get dressed.

By the time she comes back down, I’ve got scrambled eggs and toast on two plates, which is about as much as either of us has time for at this point.

We eat quickly, both of us already checking the time, and then we finish getting ready and head for the door at the same time. She’s already got her hand on the handle when I catch her by the wrist and turn her around, pulling her in for a final kiss as I bury my free hand in her soft hair.

I just need one more. One more fix of my addiction before I let her go for the day.

Later that afternoon, I’m at the office, immersed in the whirlwind of activity that comes with running Thorne Enterprises. Alongside the new studio project with Chloe, I’m focused on expanding and strengthening the empire my father built. There are plans to review, potential deals to evaluate, and countless decisions to make. My desk is a sea of documents and files, each one representing a different opportunity or challenge.

I’m still getting caught up on all the plans and potential deals my father was exploring before he passed. It’s a daunting task, trying to decide which ventures to pursue and which to let go. As I sift through the stacks of paper, a sense of responsibility weighs heavily on me. This is my legacy now, and I need to make the right choices for the future of the company.

As I reach for another file, something catches my eye. It’s a small envelope, tucked away among the business documents. I pull it out and scan the front.

The sender’s name in the corner is Doctor Samuel Fisher. My heart skips a beat. I recognize the name. He was our family doctor when I was a kid. Why would there be a letter from him mixed in with all these business documents?

I open the envelope carefully, the paper feeling old and fragile between my fingers. Inside, there’s a single sheet of paper. As I unfold it, my eyes are immediately drawn to the header.

Diagnostic Imaging Report.

The report is dated from when I was around eight years old. My eyes scan the document quickly, my heart pounding in my chest. The words “clear of cancer” jump out at me, sending a chill down my spine.

Cancer?

My father had cancer?

I lean back in my chair, staring at the report. I close my eyes, trying to recall memories from that time, searching for any clues that might explain my father’s secrecy. He was absent a lot that year. He said it was because of work, that he had to travel for business meetings and conferences. But what if there was more to it than that?

What if my father’s frequent trips were actually for medical treatment? What if he was battling cancer during those absences, and I never knew?

Now that I have a name to go by, the search is simple. I uncover medical records, appointment logs, and correspondence with the doctor. Piece by piece, I start to put together the truth of what happened all those years ago.

There it is, in black and white. Records of his diagnosis with prostate cancer, his treatment, and ultimately, his recovery from the disease.

But then I come across a more recent record, and my stomach clenches with dread. It’s dated not long ago at all, and the words on the page send a chill down my spine.

Aggressive recurrence of prostate cancer.