On our fifth wedding anniversary, my husband smiled, kissed my forehead, and announced in front of twenty laughing friends that he had lost a game of Truth or Dare, so his punishment was to divorce me. Then, as if ending a marriage were no more serious than losing a hand of poker, Nick Mercer pushed a handsome stranger toward me and said, “Don’t worry, Ella. He can keep you company until we get remarried.”
Chapter 2
Nick was waiting outside the county courthouse at eight fifty-five the next morning, checking his watch as though our divorce were an appointment between meetings.
“You came,” he said.
“You sound surprised.”
He shrugged. “I figured you’d cool down.”
Twenty minutes later, five years of marriage had been reduced to signatures, stamps, and a folder of legal papers.
Nick looked relieved.
He actually looked relieved.
Outside the courthouse, he touched my cheek.
“This won’t last,” he said. “You know that, right?”
I stepped away.
He smiled indulgently, as though I were a child throwing a tantrum.
“Let Ethan take you home. I’ve got something to do.”
Selena, I thought.
But I only nodded.
Nick kissed my forehead one final time and walked away.
Ethan was waiting across the street.
I raised the divorce decree.
“Our turn.”
His mouth twitched.
“You move fast.”
“My father hates tardiness.”
We got married that afternoon in a civil ceremony so small that the clerk and security guard were our witnesses.
Afterward, I took Ethan shopping. If he was going to meet Alexander Gomez, he needed a suit.
We were leaving a department store when I saw Nick.
He was standing near a mirrored dressing area with Selena Hart.
I knew her instantly.
She was beautiful in the polished, expensive way some women seemed born understanding. Honey-blond hair, slim figure, perfect posture.
She stepped out in a dark green evening gown and twirled.
“Too much?”
Nick looked at her carefully.
“No. The color’s perfect. But the other dress showed your waist better.”
I stopped walking.
During our entire marriage, I had taken Nick shopping countless times.
Red dress? “Looks good.”
Blue dress? “Looks good.”
Wedding anniversary outfit? “Whatever you like, babe.”
It wasn’t that he couldn’t notice details.
He simply hadn’t bothered with mine.
Ethan followed my gaze.
“You want to leave?”
Before I could answer, Nick saw us.
Selena noticed his expression and turned.
“Someone you know?”
I walked over.
“Ella Gomez. Nick’s ex-wife.”
Selena smiled.
“Oh.”
Her gaze moved across my face.
Then she laughed lightly.
“You do look a little like me.”
Nick shifted uncomfortably.
Selena slipped her arm through his.
“We should have dinner together. No reason adults can’t be civilized.”
I should have refused.
Instead, I agreed.
At the restaurant, Selena filled the first ten minutes with stories from her childhood with Nick.
They had climbed trees together, skipped school together, shared summer cabins, stolen bottles of wine from their parents.
“He still has a scar on his hip,” she said. “A dog bit him when he climbed a fence for me.”
Nick grinned.
“You remember that?”
“Of course.”
“I’d forgotten.”
They laughed.
I sat across from them, invisible.
When the waiter came, Nick immediately said, “No peanuts in anything. Selena’s allergic. And orange juice, no ice.”
My fingers tightened around the napkin.
I was allergic to peanuts too.
Nick had forgotten at least twice a year.
Ethan’s hand settled over mine.
“Ella doesn’t like black pepper,” he told the waiter. “Could we switch the sauce on the steak? And bring her iced honey-lemon tea.”
I turned toward him.
“How did you know that?”
Before he answered, a glass shattered.
Nick had knocked his water to the floor.
He muttered an apology, but his eyes were fixed on Ethan’s hand covering mine.
A minute later, my phone vibrated.
Come outside. We need to talk.
I blocked Nick’s number.
When he returned, his jaw was tight.
“Ella—”
Selena suddenly pressed a hand to her chest.
“Nick, I don’t feel well.”
His entire attention shifted.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m dizzy.”
Nick stood immediately. “I’ll take you home.”
He rushed away with her without looking back.
For once, it didn’t hurt.
Two days later, Ethan and I boarded my family’s private jet.
He stared around the leather-lined cabin as though it were a particularly elaborate waiting room.
“You’re not nervous?” I asked.
“Should I be?”
“My father owns three shipping lines, a private equity firm, hotels, and enough waterfront property to influence local elections by sneezing.”
Ethan considered this.
“What happens if he doesn’t like me?”
“He’ll probably investigate your entire life.”
“That’s less dramatic than I expected.”
“You may change your mind after dinner.”
For five years, Nick had believed I came from an ordinary Midwestern family.
That lie had been mine.
My father, Alexander Gomez, had built one of the largest privately held shipping and logistics companies on the East Coast. My mother died when I was twenty-two, and after years of fighting Dad’s attempts to manage every part of my life, I left.
I wanted to build something myself.
I became a graphic designer, rented a tiny apartment, and told almost nobody who I was.
Nick believed my parents were dead.
I let him.
At first, I told myself I wanted him to love me without money complicating things.
Later, I simply didn’t know how to confess that I had lied.
When our car reached the gates of my father’s Newport estate, Ethan looked out at the limestone mansion overlooking the Atlantic.
“You grew up here?”
“Unfortunately.”
He glanced at me.
“I’m starting to understand why your idea of rebellion was marrying a logistics executive in Boston.”
Dad was waiting in his library.
His silver hair had grown thinner, but his stare remained sharp enough to peel paint.
He looked at me first.
“Five years.”
“Hello, Dad.”
“Five years without coming home.”
“I called.”
“Birthdays and Christmas do not count as coming home.”
His eyes moved to Ethan.
“So this is your husband.”
Ethan stepped forward.
“Ethan Taylor, sir.”
Dad did not shake his hand.
“What makes you qualified to marry my daughter?”
“Dad—”
Ethan spoke before I could.
“Nothing makes me entitled to her.”
Dad’s eyes narrowed.
Ethan continued. “Your money belongs to you. Your company belongs to you. Ella belongs to herself. All I can promise is that she’ll never have to beg me for respect.”
For three seconds, nobody breathed.
Then my father shook his hand.
“Better answer than most.”
At dinner, Ethan held his own.
He asked intelligent questions about container shipping, port automation, and fuel costs. Dad, who could detect flattery from across a football field, gradually stopped interrogating him and started debating him.
Later that night, I found Ethan on the guesthouse terrace.
On the table sat iced honey-lemon tea.
I stared at it.
“Okay. Enough.”
He looked up.
“How do you know what I drink? How did you know about the pepper? We met three days ago.”
Ethan became very still.
“You met me three days ago.”
My pulse changed.
“What does that mean?”
“Four years ago, you did branding work for Aegis Design in Boston.”
I remembered the place. A struggling architecture startup renting half a floor above an old printing company.
“You were there?”
“I was an intern.”
He smiled faintly.
“Nineteen years old. Broke. Invisible.”
I stared at him.
“You used to sit beside the south window because you hated fluorescent lights,” he continued. “You drank iced tea in January. And once you bought lunch for six interns because you realized we were splitting sandwiches.”
A memory surfaced.
A skinny young man carrying blueprints.
Quiet eyes.
“You.”
He nodded.
“How did Nick find you?”
“He didn’t.”
Ethan looked toward the ocean.
“I heard through someone I knew that Nick was trying to hire an actor for some ridiculous stunt involving his wife. Then I heard your name.”
He faced me again.
“So I made sure I got the job.”
The truth landed harder than I expected.
“You put yourself there deliberately?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His answer was almost too simple.
“Because I never forgot you.”
