Prologue
Myra
The moment I met Nathan, I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life without him. Only it hadn’t worked out the way I’d wanted to.
Nothing had worked out the way I’d wanted it to.
My heels echoed on the hardwood as I made my way toward where I’d seen the person in question slink off. For a man usually the face of the party, I was surprised that he wasn’t smiling with the others and acting as if he weren’t a giant, selfish asshole with more barbs than heart.
I held back a sigh, knowing those thoughts were only part of the reason I needed to find him.
We couldn’t go on living this way.
I missed sleep. I missed my perfectly ordered life where I could pretend that the world wasn’t horrible, and I hadn’t shattered into a thousand pieces thanks to a calm cruelty that had shocked me to my very core.
And that meant I had to work with the man who haunted my days and threatened the peace of my nights.
I passed the others that I knew were related to Nate through marriage somehow and nodded, trying to smile with my eyes since my clenched jaw wouldn’t allow anything else.
They wouldn’t see the ice queen.
Good.
I needed Nate to see that queen, though.
She could wrap herself in armor. Could protect herself.
I needed to be that other me.
I turned the corner and spotted him in the library. He rubbed his temple before turning to me. A small part of me wanted to reach out and see if I could do something for his pain.
But I wasn’t that girl anymore.
And he’d never been that boy.
I let the ice queen reign.
“We need to talk.”
Nate looked up at me, and I raised a brow, so tired of the clutch in my belly at the sight of him. “Do we?”
“You know why, Nathan.”
“I honestly don’t.”
He lied. He had to. And I hated him for it. I loathed how he made me feel. The way he’d once been my everything. I hated him more with each passing day.
And what was worse, I despised the idea that he made me hate myself.
“Yes, we do, husband.”
Nate flinched and looked past me as if to see if anyone were near. What would he do if someone overheard? If they knew the truth of my greatest mistake? “Don’t fucking call me that.”
I raised my chin, narrowing my eyes at the man who’d broken me. “Fine. Ex-husband. Whatever title you want to use. But we’re going to talk.”
Chapter 1
Myra
“That’s crap. Complete and utter crap.” I set down my paintbrush and looked at the canvas in front of me, cursing out loud. “Complete shit.”
There was nobody in my studio so I could curse, shout, and act as unladylike as I wanted.
However, I still looked over my shoulder as if afraid my mother would show up out of the blue just to see what I was doing. I had a feeling she knew the precise moment I cursed—when I had a drink…or three.
She probably also knew every time that I had sex, not that that was very often. Or any time in recent memory.
I frowned and looked down at my fingers, trying to do the math. No, I wouldn’t think about that. I might be dusty and a little like a forgotten cavern, but I was still a woman. Sexy. And I was running late. Hence the cursing.
My ringer had gone off on my phone, the final alarm that told me that I absolutely had to be out the door in ten minutes if I had any chance of making my coffee date at the Boulder Bean.
I looked at my canvas, at the portrait of colors before me, and shook my head.
I wasn’t in it. I couldn’t feel the piece.
Not that it mattered. I still had time to work on my next project. My art made me a nice living, yet I knew it was my investments and my trust fund that had gotten me where I was now.
And my mother never let me forget that.
I shook my head at the thought of her. Twice in one meltdown. I needed to get my mother out of my head.
And I honestly did not want to go to the Boulder Bean. My best friends would be there, sure, but I knew what they were waiting for. Me. And it was all my fault. I was Icarus, had flown far too close to the sun. I was the reason for my personal downfall. I had pushed the others far too hard in our pact, and now it was my turn.
Of course, I hadn’t thought we’d get this far. I’d figured once the straws were drawn, we wouldn’t actually go through with the rest of the deal. I didn’t think I would be forced on a blind date with a stranger when I wasn’t even sure what I wanted in the first place. The gods of fate had blessed me with being fourth in line for this ridiculous pact of ours, but somehow, the farce had become truth.
And now, it was my turn.
I wasn’t going. I could stay home and hide from the world—something I was getting far too good at these days.
I cleaned up my brushes and the rest of my area before I washed my hands and took off my painting smock. I still wore a decent outfit underneath, and because I hadn’t been painting very well, I hadn’t gotten a single spot on me. That probably meant I’d only been staring at the canvas and its few brush strokes and doing my best to forget why I was so stressed out.
I did not want to go on a blind date.
I couldn’t.
If I were to go, that meant I would need to be across from somebody at a table, eating a meal. I would have to get to know them. I would need to speak to the person in front of me and tell them my fears and my likes and dislikes.
I felt as if I didn’t know what those were. Or maybe I didn’t know what I should like to please others. And since that wasn’t in my wheelhouse, I was floundering. I knew what I liked. I was very particular. Everybody thought Paris was the careful planner, but they were wrong. I was the one firm in my decisions and steadfast in my needs.
I had changed the course of my life when my heart was shattered into a million pieces.
I was not going to think about that, though. I would push him from my mind.
No, not him. He did not exist.
I wasn’t going to think about him at all.
Damn it, now I was thinking about him. Of his hazel eyes and dark hair. I would not think about that chiseled jaw. Or the fact that he had filled out since we first met. No, I would not think about that. Because if I did, I might as well just shove that paint scraper right into my eye and call it a day.
My phone buzzed, and I looked down at it.
Of course, it wasn’t a text. Of course, my friend would call so I had to be careful with my voice and my answers. It wouldn’t matter in the end anyway, because she’d be able to read me regardless.
“Hello there, Paris. How are you today?” I asked, putting on my best voice.
“I’m probably doing much better than you are, Ms. Myra.”
“Why, whatever do you mean?”
“Do not take that lady of the manor tone with me. You might be a rich girl, but I have the power here.”
I inwardly cringed at that because I didn’t like the fact that she was right. She did have all the power, and I was a little rich girl.
I was the friend with the trust fund, the pearls around her neck when she turned ten who had gone off to boarding school and then been offered entrance into every single Ivy League college I wanted to attend.