Everyone in Manhattan’s gilded zip codes knew the Sutton women were built for motherhood. My eldest sister gave birth to identical twin girls. My second sister delivered healthy triplets. Even a distant cousin on my father’s side produced three strapping boys in as many years. In our circle, where dynasty and legacy were treated like competitive sports, the Sutton bloodline was considered an ironclad guarantee. Except for me. For seven years, I was married to Garrett Hayes—the polished, untouchable CEO of Hayes Capital. For seven years, my womb remained completely empty. Eventually, Evelyn Hayes, the family matriarch, reached her breaking point. After subjecting me to hundreds of private and public humiliations, she finally forced Garrett to file for divorce. And my own father, convinced I had brought unspeakable disgrace upon the Sutton name, refused to let me stay under his roof for more than twenty-four hours. By the next evening, he had packed my life into three suitcases and practically sold me off to a rough-edged real estate developer who had made billions buying up blighted industrial districts—a self-made man old-money Manhattan sneeringly dismissed as vulgar new money. 1 When they shut me into the back of his black Rolls-Royce, I wept until my mascara ran in black streaks down my neck. The rumors painted him as an uncultured brute who had climbed out of the gutter on sheer brute force and zoning loopholes. The blue bloods mocked him behind closed doors. But when I was finally dropped off at his sprawling glass-and-steel estate in Greenwich, nothing matched the gossip. There wasn't a single trace of a wedding. No congratulatory bouquets, no celebratory champagne, no satin ribbons. Even the master bedroom was stripped bare of romance, dressed only in minimalist charcoal linen. He stood in the doorway in a crisp black dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, studying me with an unreadable gaze. Then, he tossed a black Amex onto the nightstand. "That’s linked to my primary account," he said, his voice deep, gravelly, and entirely matter-of-fact. "I deposit funds on the first of every month. Keep a record of what you spend." I sat frozen on the edge of the bed. "I have a son and a daughter," he continued. "Both attend Briarwood Academy. Treat them like your own." He paused, his jaw tightening slightly as if hesitating to drop the blade, though he dropped it anyway. "It’s not like you’re going to have any of your own anyway. Consider them your security for when you get old." Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and walked out. I clutched that cold plastic card in my fist, tears spilling silently onto the sheets. Not going to have any of your own. I had lived under the suffocating weight of those words for seven years. I thought escaping the Hayes estate would free me from the nightmare, only to walk straight into another cage with the exact same sentence carved into the door. He didn't return until two in the morning. He didn't waste time on pleasantries; he took a quick shower and slid beneath the covers. It was a silent, mechanical routine in the dark. I bit hard into the corner of the pillow, staring at the moonlight on the wall, enduring it until dawn. When I opened my eyes the next morning, his side of the bed was already cold. My body ached, my skin mottled with faint bruises, and I curled inward, crying fresh tears into the quiet room. I had barely pulled on a robe when the live-in nanny ushered two small children through the door. With a practiced, nervous smile, she introduced them as Mr. Burke’s twins. The boy and the girl stared up at me with wide, skittish eyes, shrinking back into the folds of the nanny’s apron. My expression remained entirely neutral. I couldn't help it. During my seven years with the Hayes family, every time society matrons visited with their grandchildren, Evelyn Hayes would summon me down to the grand parlor like a piece of defective livestock. "Look at them, Natalie. Touch their little hands. Maybe some fertility will rub off on you. Seven years and not so much as a peep from your belly. A barnyard hen is more productive than you." Every word had been a serrated knife dragged across my chest. The polite, thinly veiled snickers from the other high-society women made me feel stripped bare and flayed alive. Worse still were the moments after the guests left. Evelyn would have her private nurses drag me into her sitting room, forcing vile, unregulated holistic tinctures down my throat—foul herbal sludges, pulverized animal parts, and absurd folk remedies she had flown in from across the globe. I threw up until I dry-heaved blood. More than once, the rim of the silver cup cut the corners of my mouth. And whenever I dragged myself back upstairs, pale and trembling, Garrett would look up from his iPad with utter irritation. "Did you pick another fight with my mother? Can’t you just cooperate? She’s only doing this for your own good. She wants us to have an heir." Lying awake in the dead of night, staring at the ceiling, I used to wonder why bringing a child into the world had to come at the cost of my entire humanity. For a long time, the mere thought of children made my stomach twist with revulsion. Seeing my detachment, the nanny mumbled a few hurried pleasantries and guided the twins back down the hall. I didn't stop her. For the next six months, I rarely left the second floor, spending my days reading by the tall windows or scrolling aimlessly on my phone. Marcus Burke didn't interfere. He left before sunrise and returned long after I had turned off the bedside lamp. He carried out his nocturnal duties with relentless, steady efficiency, and then went straight to sleep. For six months, I didn't even know his first name. All I knew was that somewhere along the line, the rough friction had softened. It stopped hurting. And on certain breathless, dark nights, my body began to instinctively lean into his touch. In the middle of the sixth month, my period was two weeks late. Years ago, a late cycle would have sent me spiraling into breathless euphoria. Now, I merely noted it with flat resignation. During my marriage to Garrett, my cycle had been delayed several times. Each time, I had rushed to him, my heart hammering with desperate hope. And each time, after summoning the family’s discreet Park Avenue physician, the doctor would adjust his gold-rimmed spectacles and sigh. "Mrs. Hayes, you aren't pregnant. It’s simply an endocrine disruption caused by chronic emotional stress." The moment the doctor stepped out, Garrett’s face would harden into icy contempt. "Stop humiliating us with these pathetic false alarms." His mother was even more cruel. The next morning at breakfast, she would casually splash hot black coffee across my silk blouse. "Useless thing. You know you're barren, yet you have the nerve to call in high-profile doctors? Do you have any idea what kind of laughingstock you're making of the Hayes name?" The phantom burn on my chest throbbed at the memory. So this time, I didn't call a doctor. I ate my breakfast quietly, sat by the window with a hardcover novel, and let the morning drift by. At noon, the nanny came bursting through my bedroom door, her face drained of color. "Mrs. Burke! The chauffeur just called from Briarwood—Mason got into a fistfight and split another boy's lip wide open!" I barely lifted my eyes from my page. "Then call your boss at his office." "I can't!" the nanny stammered, wringing her hands. "Mr. Burke flew to London on the red-eye this morning for a week-long acquisition. He told me to let you know not to wait up for him." I blinked. Did I ever wait up for him? Still, I closed my book, changed into a tailored wool coat, and followed her out to the waiting car. Pulling up to Briarwood Academy sent an involuntary ache through my ribs. It was the most prestigious prep school on the East Coast. As the daughter of the Suttons and the heir to Hayes Capital, Garrett and I had grown up within these ivy-covered limestone walls. It was here that we had rescued a stray kitten from the stone fountain. It was here that he had stood in the rain with me whenever I was given detention. As teenagers, he had sworn on his life that when we grew up, he would give me the most breathtaking wedding New York had ever seen. He kept that promise. Yet, after the wedding, simply because my body didn't produce a child, the boy who once looked at me as if I hung the stars came to treat me like a stain on his family crest. I swallowed down the rising bile, stepping through the arched stone entry. I had barely reached the administrative rotunda when I saw him. Garrett Hayes. Six months apart hadn't dulled his sharp, patrician elegance. Standing tall in his bespoke charcoal suit, there wasn't a trace of grief or regret in the lines of his face. If anything, he looked more commanding, more effortlessly triumphant than ever. Not like me. Since the divorce, I had spent months crying myself hollow in darkened rooms, looking so pale and withered I avoided mirrors entirely. Before I could look away, the heavy oak doors opened, and a woman in a pastel Chanel tweed suit and crimson Christian Louboutin pumps glided inside, flanked by an assistant. I recognized her instantly: Genevieve Talbot, the granddaughter of Briarwood’s former headmaster and daughter of the current board chairman. When Garrett and I were seniors, she had been a giggling freshman we occasionally teased by the tennis courts. The moment she reached Garrett, she threw her arms around his neck. "Garrett! I missed you so much." Garrett’s stern expression softened into an effortless, indulgent warmth. He caught her by the waist and tapped her nose with his knuckle. "Careful. Still rushing around like a schoolgirl, aren't you?" The sight felt like an ice pick between my ribs. The junior dean escorting me lowered her voice, dripping with polite deference. "That's Miss Talbot. Her engagement to Mr. Hayes will be formally announced next month. They're wonderfully devoted to each other." My fingers dug into the edge of my phone. Engaged already? Of course. Garrett had been desperate to discard me for years. The day I signed the separation agreement, his eyes had been suspiciously rimmed with red, but I knew him too well—beneath the practiced solemnity was a wave of pure, unadulterated relief. I forced my gaze straight ahead. I was divorced. Whatever Garrett did, whoever he married, had nothing to do with me anymore. Yet the phantom sting lingered. The dean led me to the disciplinary office at the end of the hall. The moment the door opened, I saw my stepson, Mason. His school blazer was torn, his cheek was bruised, and a trail of dried blood crusted the corner of his lip. Standing opposite him was a smug, pampered boy with his arms crossed. I recognized him immediately. Nolan Hayes—the son of Garrett’s older sister, Beatrice. Beatrice had spent seven years visiting the Hayes estate solely to whisper poison into Evelyn's ear about my empty womb. It was after Nolan had once maliciously shoved me down the garden steps and Evelyn had blamed me for scaring the boy that I had finally given up and agreed to the divorce. The homeroom teacher, Mr. Miller, stepped forward holding a heavy wooden disciplinary ledger, his face flushed with anger. "Mason, step up here right now and explain why you assaulted your classmate." Mason’s eyes were bloodshot, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles twitched. "He started it." "Excuse me?" "He said my stepmother was a broken broodmare who got kicked to the curb. He said my dad was a garbage picker who took Garrett Hayes's leftover trash. I told him to shut his mouth, and he wouldn't, so I hit him." Miller waved his hand dismissively. "Nonsense. That's a blatant lie. Violence is strictly prohibited under Briarwood’s zero-tolerance policy. If I don't discipline you right now, you'll think your father's money puts you above the rules. Put your hands out." Mason bit his trembling lower lip. "I won't. He insulted my—" Before the boy could finish, Miller raised the heavy leather-bound ledger and brought it down hard across the back of Mason's small hand. I had felt virtually nothing toward this boy for six months. I had come today only out of basic obligation. But watching that grown man strike a six-year-old child because of a biased allegiance to the Hayes family made something savage snap inside my chest. "Mr. Miller!" My voice cut through the room like shattered glass. "You don't even bother reviewing the security footage or taking statements before striking a child? Do you assume he has no parents just because his father is out of the country?" The room fell dead silent. Mason was the first to react. The moment he turned and saw me, his tough facade crumbled, and he threw himself at my waist, burying his face into my coat. "Mom... Nolan hit me first." His little arms gripped my thighs with desperate, trembling force. My legs went slightly rigid. It was the first time a child had ever held onto me. I had never realized how small, how fragile, a child's hands could feel. I didn't push him away. Instead, I rested a hand on his trembling shoulder and leveled a murderous glare at Miller. "You call my son a liar without a shred of inquiry, and your first instinct is corporal punishment? What kind of educator are you?" Miller’s face turned an ugly shade of puce. "You're just his stepmother—what do you know about our institutional standards?" Before I could speak, Nolan sneered from the corner, his voice dripping with Beatrice’s trademark malice. "Mr. Miller, she isn't even a real mother! She’s the barren freak my grandmother kicked out of our house! Seven years married to my uncle and couldn't even drop a pup! She’s just a discarded—" My hands curled into tight fists. Look at them. The illustrious Hayes family. Even their eight-year-old children were coached to throw venomous slurs at women. I didn't waste my breath on Nolan. I crouched down to Mason's eye level, keeping my voice low and steady. "Can you take him in a fight?" Mason blinked, startled, then gave a firm nod. "Then go across that room and finish what you started," I said quietly. "And if you need backup, the nanny will step in." Mason’s eyes widened with pure shock, followed by a fierce, wild spark of delight. I gave him a light pat on the shoulder. "Go." Mason bolted across the polished hardwood like a coiled spring. I had seen him practicing Brazilian jiu-jitsu and taekwondo in the estate’s private gym—at six years old, he could snap a solid pine board with a roundhouse kick. I had wondered why on earth he had let a soft, pampered boy like Nolan Hayes get the upper hand in the first place. If you take a hit, you hit back twice as hard. Within seconds, Mason had Nolan pinned flat on the Persian rug, raining small, precise punches down until Nolan was shrieking in terror. "Stop! Stop this immediately!" Miller roared, rushing forward with his ledger raised high, aiming a strike directly at Mason’s back. "You little savage, how dare you touch a Hayes—" "What are you standing there for?" I snapped at the nanny. "Grab him! Drag him off the boy and slap some sense into him!" The nanny went white. "Mrs. Burke, I... I can't—" "If you don't lay a hand on that man right now, you can pack your bags and leave my house before sundown." Backed into a corner, the nanny’s survival instincts took over. She threw off her cardigan, lunged forward, grabbed Miller by his thinning hair, and yanked him backward onto the floor. "How dare you touch our young master!" She dropped her weight onto his chest and delivered three resounding slaps across his face. The office descended into absolute chaos. Nolan was wailing beneath Mason’s fists; Miller was screaming beneath the nanny’s slaps. I stood there, watching the mayhem, a cold, sharp smirk touching my lips. A barren, useless discard? Fine. Let them see what happens when the discard stops playing polite. "What on earth is going on in here?!" A sharp, authoritative voice cut through the noise from the doorway. Garrett Hayes. My grip on my purse tightened instinctively, but I didn't turn around. I simply kept my eyes on Mason. "Keep going, Mason," I said calmly. "Whatever happens, I'll handle it." Garrett stepped inside, his eyes widening in total disbelief as he took in the scene—and then landed on me. "Natalie?" He crossed the room in two strides, his hand clamping down on my wrist like a vice. "Natalie! What are you doing here?" Pain shot up my arm. Without a second's hesitation, I raised my free hand and struck him across the face with everything I had. Crack. The slap echoed sharply off the high ceiling. I wrenched my wrist from his grip, stepping back with cold disgust. "Keep your hands to yourself, Mr. Hayes. We are not on touching terms." Garrett stood frozen, his head turned, his cheek blooming bright red. Across the room, Nolan’s shrieks broke the silence. "Uncle Garrett! Uncle Garrett, help me!" Garrett snapped out of his trance, shot me a furious glare, and rushed over to haul Mason off his nephew by the scruff of his collar. Mason was quick; the moment his sneakers touched the floor, he ducked under Garrett’s arm and sprinted behind me, clutching the hem of my coat. The nanny scrambled to her feet, panting, and fell in line beside us. Garrett knelt beside Nolan, checking the boy’s swelling face, before turning on me, his chest heaving with indignation. "Natalie, you know Nolan has severe asthma! How could you orchestrate this? Look at what you’ve become! Where is your dignity? Where is the refined woman I married?" The refined woman. The phrase dragged seven years of humiliation back to the surface. Whenever Beatrice had visited to poison Evelyn against me, and Evelyn had forced me to stand in the drafty ancestral portrait hall all night, Garrett had offered that exact same look of weary disgust. "Natalie, why do you always have to be so dramatic? Can’t you carry yourself like a Sutton? You sound like a bitter shrew." Back then, I would retreat to our bedroom and sob into the dark. Now, I only felt a liberating, razor-sharp contempt. "Whether your nephew can breathe or not is none of my damn business," I said coldly. "Tell your sister that if her brat ever touches my stepson again, I’ll have Mason break his nose. And you'd better teach that boy to watch his mouth. If I hear him repeating your family’s pathetic gossip again, I’ll have my brother Sam pay a visit to Hayes Capital’s board of directors to ask why your entire bloodline behaves like trailer-park trash." I expected him to explode. During our marriage, paralyzed by my failure to conceive, I had never dared raise my voice to him. Instead, the fury drained from his face, replaced by a sudden, hollow shock. "You... you got remarried? You're actually married?" I paused, slightly taken aback that he didn't know. But the realization followed quickly: the moment the ink dried on our divorce papers, he had erased me from his universe. He wouldn't have lowered himself to track my whereabouts. My lips curved into a mockingly polite smile. "Why? You're announcing your engagement to Miss Talbot next month. Did you expect me to enter a convent?" I reached down, taking Mason’s hand. "Go get your sister from her classroom. We’re leaving." Then I turned back to Miller, who was struggling to sit up with a split lip. "Congratulations, Mr. Miller. Briarwood is the last institution that will ever employ you. I’m texting my brother the minute I walk out this door to ensure your teaching credentials are permanently revoked across the state." Miller began to stammer, "Mrs. Burke... please, I—" "Let this be a lesson," I cut him off cleanly. "A Hayes child isn't the only one with backing. A Burke child is untouchable." I turned my gaze to Garrett, whose face had gone completely bloodless. "If you ever see me in public, Garrett, cross the street. If you lay a hand on me again, I’ll make sure you lose it." I turned on my heel and walked out, never once looking back. Seven years of devotion, finally and cleanly buried in the dirt. When we got home, I brought Mason straight to my bedroom to clean his cuts. The boy sat on the edge of the ottoman, his small fists clenched so hard his knuckles were white, not making a single sound as the antiseptic stung his split lip. His twin sister, Harper, sat beside him with her chin in her hands, watching me with wide, curious eyes. I had spent years telling myself I despised children. Yet looking at these two battered, watchful little things, I felt an unexpected ache of tenderness. Once the bandages were on, I told the nanny to take them to the downstairs dining room for an early dinner. Mason immediately wrapped his arms around my waist. "Mom, can we eat in your room?" Before I could answer, Harper grabbed my other arm, her lower lip trembling. "Please, Mom? Can we stay with you?" My posture stiffened slightly. The nanny stepped forward, her eyes glistening. "Please let them stay, Mrs. Burke. Truth be told, they've wanted to have dinner with you since the day you moved in. They're twins... their mother passed from a massive hemorrhage right after delivery. Mr. Burke did the best he could, but he’s a businessman—he’s never known how to handle children. Whenever they got picked on at school, he’d just tell Mason to toughen up or ground him. Today was the first time anyone ever stood up for him." I looked down at the two small heads resting against my sides, my hand tightening on my phone. "Fine," I murmured. "Set the table up here." Once that door cracked open, it never closed again. Over the next week, the twins didn't just eat in my suite—they practically lived in it. With school temporarily out of the question while my brother sorted out the administrative mess, my days were suddenly consumed by flying kites on the estate grounds, reading picture books, and wandering through local bakeries. Seven days vanished in a blink. That evening, I fell asleep with Mason curled against my left side and Harper tucked under my right arm. A soft click woke me. The bedroom door opened slowly. Through the dim ambient light, I saw Marcus Burke standing in the entryway. He had clearly just arrived from the airport, still wearing his tailored wool overcoat, his leather briefcase in hand. He stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the bed. After a few seconds of silence, he quietly pulled the door shut and retreated. Ten minutes later, the door opened again. He had changed into dark lounge pants and a plain t-shirt. He walked over to the edge of the mattress and looked down at me. "They're taking up the whole bed," he whispered, his deep voice kept low so as not to wake the children. "Where am I supposed to sleep?" It was the first time I had ever looked at him under clear moonlight. He didn't have the delicate, aristocratic features of the men in my social circle. His jaw was broad, shadowed with stubble, his cheekbones sharp, and his dark eyes carried an intense, grounded weight that defied the rumors of the crude upstart. I glanced down at the twins. "You could sleep in their room." He paused, studying my face for three beats. "Fair enough." He turned and left. A few minutes later, I heard the faint click of a laptop opening in the adjacent study. He was working through the night. I rolled over, an unfamiliar warmth settling in my chest. The next morning, the children were already gone when I woke up. Assuming he had left for the corporate office as usual, I pulled on a silk robe and prepared to get out of bed. Two sharp knocks sounded at the door. "Coming in," his voice called out. He pushed the door open, carrying a glass of warm water, which he set carefully on the nightstand. "The nanny took the kids to the conservatory," he said, taking a seat in the leather armchair near the window. "Did you sleep well?" I nodded quietly. He fell silent for a moment, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Natalie, I want to tell you something." I met his gaze. "Go ahead." "The acquisition in London closed," he said evenly. "The firm's assets will double by the end of the quarter. I’m not telling you this to brag. I’m telling you because I know what people say about me. They call me a scavenger, an uncultured developer who got lucky on rezoning deals. But every single dollar under my name was earned with my own hands. I started on construction sites at sixteen, carrying drywall, working twenty-hour shifts, building from the dirt up. I might not have an Ivy League pedigree, but I’m nobody’s fool." His tone was entirely steady—no defensive anger, no self-pity. Just pure, unvarnished reality. He paused, then added, "My name is Marcus. Marcus Burke." I sat frozen. Six months of marriage, and this was the first time he had formally introduced himself. "I know," I said softly. He nodded, standing up. "One more thing." "Yes?" "What I said to you on our first night... don't take it to heart. I didn't marry you because you couldn't have children. I married you because... never mind." He turned and walked toward the door. I stayed perched on the edge of the mattress, staring at the glass of warm water on the nightstand, unable to move for a long time. I didn't leave my room for the rest of the day. The nanny knocked three times with lunch trays, but I didn't answer. It wasn't until dusk that little Harper tapped timidly against the wood. "Mom? Can you open the door? I missed you." I tried to steel myself, but the thought of those large, pleading brown eyes—and the way she clung to my sleeve at night whispering, Mom, please don't leave us—broke my resolve. I splashed cold water over my face and opened the door. The moment it swung inward, Harper launched herself into my arms. "Mom! You didn't hold me all day!" A rush of warmth flooded my ribs. She buried her face into my neck for a long minute before pulling back, pointing a small finger toward the stairs. "Mom, Dad’s been waiting downstairs for hours. He was too scared to come up." I blinked, carrying Harper down the grand curved staircase. In the formal living room, Marcus was seated on the low sofa. Spread out across the marble coffee table were half a dozen sleek designer shopping bags from luxury boutiques I rarely saw outside of private trunk shows. He stood up the moment he saw me. "Natalie." I stayed silent. He stepped forward, opening the bags one by one. "This is the cashmere coat you dog-eared in that Italian editorial magazine. I had my buyer in Milan source it." "These are the skincare products you keep on your vanity. A fresh set." "And this..." He hesitated, lifting a structured box containing a limited-edition Hermès Kelly. "The sales director said women like these. I don't know if the leather is right." I stared at the pristine bag, worth more than a mid-sized sedan. "What is this, Marcus?" His dark eyes held mine with absolute sincerity. "An apology." He took a slow breath. "What I said this morning... I didn't finish. I didn't take you as my wife because you were supposedly barren." He stopped, searching for the right words. "When your brother Sam mentioned that your divorce was final and asked if I’d consider marrying you, I agreed on the spot." I stared at him. "You probably won't believe me," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Three years ago, I visited one of your brother’s architectural galas. You were standing by an arched window in a plain white linen dress, reading a book while the rest of the room drank champagne. I watched you for nearly an hour. You never noticed me." A chill ran down my spine. "So you just agreed to marry me without knowing who I was?" "I knew who you were," he said calmly. "I knew you were a Sutton. I knew you spent seven years in the Hayes household without bearing an heir, and that they threw you away for it. I knew every piece of poison Manhattan whispered behind your back. I didn't care." There was no desperation in his voice, no cheap romantic performance. Just absolute, immovable truth. "Natalie, I’m not a saint. In business, when I have to cut a throat, I don't hesitate. But I don't lay a hand on women. And I will never, under any circumstances, mistreat my wife." He took a step back, giving me space. "I was out of line when you moved in. It won't happen again. If you don't want to talk to me, that's fine. But you need to eat. I'll have the staff bring up dinner." He turned and walked upstairs toward his study. I stood in the center of the living room, surrounded by Italian cashmere and leather, feeling an anchor finally drop into the stormy waters of my life. That night, I ate everything on the tray. The next morning, Marcus was gone before I woke up. On my nightstand lay a fresh glass of warm water and a handwritten note: In Chicago for three days. Call if you need anything. Number below. I held the small piece of heavy cream cardstock for a long time. He returned on the third evening, arriving just as I finished tucking the twins into bed. I was heading downstairs to fetch a glass of water when the front door clicked open. He carried a heavy leather briefcase, the crisp autumn chill still clinging to the wool of his suit. He froze when he saw me on the landing. "Still up?" "Just getting some water." I walked into the kitchen. A second later, his heavy footsteps followed. "Let me," he said, gently taking the crystal tumbler from my hands. He filled it with warm filtered water and handed it back. As our fingers brushed, a spark of heat leaped between our skin. Neither of us pulled away immediately. "Natalie." "Yes?" "There’s a gala the night after tomorrow," he said, leaning back against the marble island. "The Metropolitan Business Council’s annual benefit. Your brother will be there. Garrett Hayes will be there, too." He watched my face carefully. "If it makes you uncomfortable, we won't go. I can handle the networking alone." I took a slow sip of water. "I want to go." His dark brow arched slightly. "You're sure?" "Completely." "Why?" I set the tumbler down with a firm click. "Because I’m your wife now. Not the discarded ghost of Garrett Hayes." I looked straight into his eyes. "Besides... you claim you're not an uncultured brute. I'd like to see for myself how you handle a room full of sharks." A slow, genuine smile spread across his face—the first real smile I had ever seen on him. "Fair enough."
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