Chapter 1

1.

When Tristan Vandermeer postponed our wedding for the ninth time, his excuse was almost a work of art.

"Sienna hurt her hand."

Tristan told me this while his thumb was still scrolling on his phone screen. He wouldn’t even look up at me.

I stood in the kitchen―technically his kitchen, since the deed was in his name―holding a freshly opened bottle of champagne.

I had planned to celebrate sending out the invitations.

Those invitations cost three thousand dollars. Letterpress printing from a boutique shop in Brooklyn. Four weeks of lead time. Tristan’s mother had insisted on that specific shop.

"When opening a wine bottle," he continued, still typing, "the corkscrew slipped."

I watched his thumb move rapidly.

There is something so intimate about watching someone text. The rhythm of it. The slight smile that flickered at the corner of his mouth when he read a reply.

"She needs me, Grace."

Not "we should postpone." Not "I’m sorry." Just a dry statement of fact: She needs me.

"Needs you for what?"

He finally looked up.

It was an expression I had learned to decipher over the last three years―it meant I was being unreasonable.

"She’s thinking about having a baby. Her doctor said her ovulation window is perfect right now."

The champagne bottle slipped.

It wasn’t dramatic―I caught it before it hit the floor. But some liquid splashed onto the marble countertop. I watched the bubbles burst one by one.

"You have got to be f*cking kidding me."

It was the first time in three years I had sworn at him.

Tristan’s jaw tightened. "Watch your language, Grace. Sienna and I grew up together. Our families―"

"She needs your donation," I cut him off. "She needs you to warm her bed for the next ten days until it takes. That’s what 'she needs me' means?"

"You make it sound disgusting."

"Because it is disgusting."

He put down his phone and walked over, trying to hug me.

This was his standard operating procedure―do something unforgivable, then clean up the mess with tenderness.

"Listen, baby. Sienna doesn’t want to go to a clinic for a stranger. She trusts me. She trusts our family’s genes. It’s just a... business arrangement. I’ll come back, I promise. The wedding is just pushed back two weeks―"

I took a step back.

"You know what my father does, right?"

Tristan paused. "Of course. Dominic is the president of the dockworkers' union―"

"Stop pretending, Tristan."

I laughed. It sounded harsh even to my own ears.

"My dad controls the entire coastline from Newark to Philadelphia. Anyone who wants to unload cargo on the East Coast has to go through him. Every penny your family has made in shipping over the years? He took a cut."

"So?"

Tristan raised an eyebrow, a hint of mockery on his lips. "Grace, what is your point?"

"So you better think clearly."

I bent down and picked up a shard of glass from the floor. The sharp edge sliced my index finger. A bead of blood oozed out.

"What you are doing right now is telling me and my father that the Hayes family means nothing to you."

Tristan’s expression shifted, but he quickly recovered that condescending calm.

"Watch your tone, Grace."

"No."

I threw the glass shard into the trash can and looked at my bleeding finger.

"I’m just telling the truth."

"So, do you agree or not?"

I turned and walked toward the bedroom to start packing.

"Do whatever you want."

Tristan followed, watching me fold clothes into my suitcase. "Where are you going?"

"Back to my dad’s house." I packed my clothes neatly. "Aren't you spending ten days with Sienna? This apartment is yours. Do whatever you like."

"Grace―"

"Get out, Tristan."

It was the first time I had ever spoken to him like that.

He stood in the doorway. An expression flashed across his face that I had never seen before―not anger, not guilt, but confusion.

He looked at me like his favorite toy had suddenly grown fangs.

"You’ll regret this," he finally said.

"I already do," I replied. "I regret wasting three years."