I wake up in a cold sweat, still hearing the echoes of my mother’s voice, crying out. This nightmare was a particular shitty one. Her dead, bloated body haunting me, begging for justice. Pleading.

I stare blindly at the wall in front of me, remembering last night’s charming dream. That one of my father being burned alive by fire. The man was a piece of shit, yeah. But that shouldn’t have happened.

I can’t shake off the plague of thoughts that have battered at me lately. Over the last week, since I told Gemma I didn’t want to see her anymore, I’ve been unable to let the past go. It’s had me in its relentless grip. Taunting me with the knowledge of what happened to my parents. I didn’t even know my father, had never met him, but the man’s ghost would not let me go.

Even worse, my mother was back in my dreams. I hadn’t seen her in years, had thought she was gone. But no, she was just biding her time before destroying me again. Reminding me how I failed her by not resolving her murder. I can see the strangulation marks around her neck, the blue tingeing her lips. Her eyes pleading with me.

Fuck.

I reach over and finish the warm dregs of the bourbon on my side table. The burn glides down my throat and gives me that blessed numbness I’ve fallen into.

I haven’t been to work in two days. All I’ve done is stay home and drink. Sleep restlessly. Try my best to forget about my past. About Gemma.

But I can’t stop thinking about her. She’s torturing me, her sweet smile and caring eyes. Her fiery spark and passionate lovemaking. The woman ruined me. She ruined me and I’m fucked.

I grab the glass and pad my way out of my bedroom toward the wet bar. Pour another generous helping of bourbon. Sit on my couch and stare at the skyline as I drink. It’s pitch black in my house, and I left the curtains open, so the cityscape floods my apartment. I can’t help but remember Gemma’s awe when she stood there, looking over the city.

Fuck. I take a hard swig.

I don’t want to think about her. I don’t want to examine my reaction of the last time I saw her. My wounds, my pride won’t allow me to admit the possibility that I overreacted. She hurt me, yes. She did something I specifically asked her to not do.

But if I let myself really think about it, I have to acknowledge that maybe I understand why. That she knows this is something that has plagued me for years and years. And she wanted to help me.

But thinking about that means realizing I fucked up with her, that I let her walk out of my life. And now I have to face that life without her.

It doesn’t matter. I don’t care. I suck down my drink. Pour another. And then another, until I’m drunk and nothing means anything. Until I’m blissfully numb and not forced to face my own life.

I wake up on the couch, my head screaming at me. Again. The glass of bourbon is half empty on the coffee table. My mouth is parched, and I’m desperate for water, even though my stomach is lurching.

I can’t fucking keep doing this. I feel like garbage.

Shame floods me as I walk to the kitchen, pour water from the fridge. I sip it carefully, not wanting to cause my stomach to vomit up its contents.

Right before I woke up, I remember my mom’s face. Her looking at me, disappointment in her eyes. Not over the mystery of her death, but over what I’ve become. That guilt sits hard in my chest.

I look outside at the crisp morning sun beaming down on the city. People are milling about, going to work well below me. The world is still moving on, despite me being stuck in a holding pattern. And that’s where I’ve been. In a holding pattern. For years, actually, not just because of Gemma. These businesses I’ve built, they’ve been a way to distract me from the sore spot in my heart.

The women I’ve slept with, the same.

Gemma came into my life and shattered everything. Made me question my practices, my beliefs.

I can’t keep living like this. I know that. Mom would want me to do better for myself. And the thought that I’m letting her down…it tugs at my soul. Won’t let me go. I know what she would tell me. She’d sit me down and hold my hands and say, “Aston, you’re better than this. You’re smart enough to do anything you want to do.”

She’d believe in me.

I grab my phone. Text Steven, the PI who first told me about Gemma’s dad being the investigator in my biological father’s case. I want the contact information for the cop in charge of Foreman’s case. Thanks.

Not five minutes later, my phone pings. No problem. Here you go. This is his phone number and address.

* * *

“I admit, I’m surprised to see you here,” Gemma’s dad tells me as he opens the door. “After the way things ended with you and her.”

My stomach lurches. “She…told you?”

He gives me a knowing look. “She didn’t have to. I’m not a moron. The fact that she was so interested in your father’s case told me everything.”

I just nod.

“Have a seat,” he says coolly, waving me toward the tan couch against the wall.

I do as he says, resting my hands on my knees. He takes a seat on the recliner nearby. Eyes me with interest and a little skepticism. I haven’t felt this much scrutiny in…I don’t even know how long. It shouldn’t matter what he thinks of me. But it does.

“I admit, I’m not really feeling any warm fuzzies for you right now,” he says finally, ending the awkward silence. “You hurt my daughter.”

My stomach clenches. Gemma doesn’t know I’m here. I arranged this directly with him, needing answers. “I…” I clear my throat. “We—”

He holds up a hand, cutting me off. The man is hard as stone. His hair is precision cut, in a way I imagine it was when he was a cop. And he has the cop attitude about him. “Doesn’t matter. I feel I owe this to the son of the man who was murdered.”

Hearing him express his suspicions…it does something to me. When I heard his death was ruled accidental, I couldn’t help but find that questionable. Convenient. I don’t see Gemma’s dad as being someone who tosses around such theories lightly. The man is all seriousness. “So you think it was arson,” I say.

“I do,” he says with a nod. “I believe it was a homicide. Your father was murdered.”

I scrub my jaw and lean back on the couch. No wonder Gemma wanted to talk to me. After learning this, I’m sure it ate away at her. God, I was a shit heel to just push her away without listening.

“I’m not sure how much you know about the case,” he says to me.

“Not a lot,” I admit.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Your father had a son who lived at home with him and his mother. After the fire, when questioned, the son presented very strangely and left me with a bad taste in my mouth.”

My heart stops when I hear this. I have a brother. One who possibly murdered his own father, if this man is right. I don’t even know how to process this information. Jesus.

He continues. “We had two experts look at the remains of the fire. One of them said it was definitely arson. The other wasn’t certain. He leaned toward it being an accident.”

“Well, why didn’t this get pursued anyway?” I press.

That’s when he explains to me about the chief of police, who had political aspirations and no time to waste on a case he didn’t think warranted the police hours. I can see the frustration in his face. “It’s even harder because that so-called ‘expert’ who said it was an accident was later found to be lying about his experience and was disgraced. Not that it mattered at that point.” He snarls in disgust.

“I… Fuck.” I shake my head. No wonder nothing happened with this. What a crock of shit. My faith in the NYC police takes a sharp nosedive.

“Yeah.” He huffs. “But that’s not all.” He clears his throat and settles into his chair. “I’m…not sure if you want to know more, but you may not like what you hear.”

That makes my blood turn cold. But I tell him, “Just say it. I need to know.”

He nods. “Fair enough. Our investigation turned up that your biological father was cheating on his wife with multiple women. Not just your mom. We believe that his son found out about it while seeing a stack of letters your father was hiding and saving from his different romantic dalliances.”

I close my eyes and digest what he’s saying. I remember as a little kid my mom sitting at the kitchen table, penning letters to the man she said was my dad. That she knew I didn’t understand but she loved him and wanted to make sure he knew. The fucker.

She wasn’t the only one he was doing this with. Mom suspected as much, and this man just confirms it.

He continues quietly, “We felt that provided a clear motive for murder—his fear over losing his father’s affection and inheritance. Not to mention that he and his mother had a strangely close bond.” His gaze skitters away from mine.

“What do you mean by that?”

“We…found their connection to be unnatural,” is all he says. His face is full of disgust.

“I see.”

We sit in quiet for a couple of minutes while I try to digest what he’s told me. My head is spinning with all the information. I have a half brother who might have murdered our father. So fucked up. I don’t even want to approach the man and see if he has information about my mother. Clearly I couldn’t trust anything he had to say.

I scratch my jaw and lean forward, resting my forearms on my thighs. “So, how is Gemma?”

He hardens instantly. “No. We’re not talking about her. I’m not going to relieve you of any guilt you might be feeling over my little girl.” He draws in a sharp breath. Fixes me with a hard eye that makes me feel shame all over again. “I think she may have fallen in love with you. You know, normally, I’d have belted a guy like you in the teeth for what you did to my daughter. But something tells me life has already belted you enough. I can’t make it any worse.”

His words dig into me. It’s true. I give a weak nod. I don’t even know what to say to defend myself. Everything is just cycling through me—the murders, my fears, how I pushed her away…

I lift my jaw and look at him. “I know I don’t deserve her. I screwed things up. And nothing I can say to you will fix that.” It’s the most honest thing I’ve admitted in a week.

His nod is quick. He doesn’t say anything. There isn’t anything to say.

I leave his house. Get into the limo and head back to my apartment. I feel shell-shocked, like I just survived some kind of trauma I don’t even know how to begin to deal with. The ride up the elevator, the walk into my apartment, I make with numb steps.

Nothing means anything anymore.

I grab my trusty bottle of bourbon. I don’t need a fucking glass. I take a deep swig. Then another. Then another.

I keep drinking until my blood is more alcohol than anything else. I keep drinking until I don’t remember how Gemma looked when she walked out of my life. I keep drinking until the haunting echoes of my mother’s words don’t rattle in my soul.

I cling to the bottle and I drink until blackness overtakes me.

* * *

My eyes blink open as I register the slant of the morning sun in the window. I fell asleep early yesterday. Scratch that—I passed out. It was mid-afternoon. I can tell it’s the next day by the location of the sun.

I’m not as hung over as I should be, though I definitely have cotton mouth. I must have slept through the worst of it. I pop two Tylenol and make a cup of coffee.

For the first time in a week, I feel alive.

Meeting with Gemma’s dad yesterday…it changed me. It changed things. There’s a weight off me that has been bearing down on my shoulders for years. I don’t know why talking to him made everything different, but it did.

I feel like a new man.

I’m reborn, in a way. I understand my purpose. My life. And it involves Gemma. Everything I have, everything I’ve built, it is meaningless without her. So I will do whatever I have to in order to win her back.

I need her in my life. By my side. I need her sass mouth telling me what I’ve done wrong, calling me out on my crap. And frankly, I miss her. In my arms, laughing, kissing me, sharing herself so openly.

I don’t want to live without her.

I get ready fast and text my driver. He arrives at the front of the apartment building in a flash with the car. “I need you to drive me to Tiffany’s,” I tell him.

In his usual manner, he doesn’t comment, just heads through the crowded city street toward the store.

“I’m glad for you, you know,” he finally says quietly.

I still. “What?”

“Not that you asked, but she’s a delightful woman.” I can see his eyes looking at me through the rearview mirror. “I’ve been your driver for years, and I’ve never seen you this way over another person before.”

My face burns. Part of me is tempted to chastise him into minding his own business. But to be fair, he has. For years. He’s been discreet, and always kind to me, even when I was a dick to him. So I clear my throat. “Um. Thanks.” I need to learn more about how to be personable. “I…want to get her a ring.”

Admittedly, getting that off my chest feels freeing. Like I’m confessing and relieving myself of the pressure of secrecy.

“You’re going to the right place,” he says in a warm tone. “I’ll get you there as soon as possible, Mr. Chandler.”

“Aston,” I tell him. “I think since I just told you I’m planning to propose to someone, you can call me by my first name.”

He chuckles. “Well. Only if you insist.”

When he gets there, he drops me off and tells me he’ll await my text to pick him up. I dart into the store. The saleswoman near the front of the doors must smell the money on me, because she comes darting over, all smiles, and asks how she can help.

“I need to see engagement rings,” I tell her. Fuck. Those are words I never thought I’d say.

Am I really doing this? It’s crazy. Impulsive. But I know more than anything that I want her as my wife. I want to fall asleep and be able to reach over and touch her. I want to wake up to her messy bedhead and sleepy smile. I want to share meals together, share secrets together.

I want her. Plain and simple. And I have to prove to her that I’m serious.

I can see the dollar signs in the saleswoman’s eyes as she leads me to the floor with the best engagement rings. I dismiss most of them. They don’t feel special. Then I see one that stops me. A pear-shaped diamond, surrounded by curves of smaller diamonds, set in white gold. It’s simple, but stunning, and totally Gemma’s style.

“That one,” I say.

She beams. “This is one of our newest additions. I’m sure you’ll be pleased.”

A half hour later, I’m out of the store, bearing a ring box in my pocket and my heart on my sleeve. “Take me to Gemma’s house, please,” I say. I don’t know if she’s there, but I have to start somewhere. I have a feeling she won’t respond to my texts. Not that I can blame her.

We arrive. I get out and enter her building. Shit. Which place is hers? I examine the mailboxes until I recognize the name of one of her roommates. Okay, she’s on the second floor. I go up there and knock on the door.

It opens. A woman with bright red hair is there, eyeing me with interest. “Well, hello. Special delivery?” she asks in a sultry tone.

“Is Gemma here?”

She quirks a brow. “May I know who is asking?”

“I’m Aston Chandler.”

Her face shutters instantly. “Nope.” With that, she slams the door in my face.

Fuck. I rap on it. “Hey. Please open up. I need to talk to her.”

“Go away, ass hat,” I hear. “She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“Five minutes, that’s all I ask,” I say. Jesus, I’m really begging for time through a fucking door. I suck in a steadying breath. “Look. I know she hates me. I’m sure she told you why. But…” I turn around and lean back against the door. Exhale. “I made a mistake letting her go. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me, and I fucked up. I want to tell her…”

Why am I bothering? They aren’t going to let me in. I scrape my hand over my jaw. I don’t know what to do.

The door flings open suddenly and I’m thrown off balance. As I steady myself, the redhead is staring at me. “You want to tell her what?” she asks in a cautious tone.

I have to tread carefully. I have one chance to win their hearts. And if I can win theirs, maybe I can win hers. I dig into my pocket and flick the box open.

She gasps and reaches for it. “Holy fucking Christ on a cracker, that’s stunning.” She starts to tug the ring from the slit, but stops herself, and just sighs. Looks at me. Shakes her head. “You know, I was hoping you’d come here so I could tell you what fucking idiot you are.”

“I am,” I admit baldly.

“Stop agreeing with me,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “I don’t want to like you.”

I struggle to keep my mouth from quirking. “I don’t blame you.”

“And then you show up here with a ring.” Her eyes are full of loathing. “You really suck, you know.”

I close my eyes. Exhale. Look at her and let her see the vulnerability in me. It’s so fucking hard. But I do it. “I know. But I’m in love with her. I need to see her. I need her to know that I’ll do anything to get her back.”

The woman stares at me for so long that I almost squirm under the scrutiny. Then she nods. “Guggenheim.”

“What?”

“She’s at the Guggenheim. Looking at an exhibit on some modern art crap. You can find her there. And so help me God, if she comes back crying because you hurt her, I will rip your balls off and eat them for lunch.”

Somehow, I don’t doubt it. I nod. Then I turn around and go before she can berate me more.

The drive there, my stomach is a riot. I keep trying to rehearse what I’m going to say, but words are failing me. What can I possibly offer to her that will show her what’s in my heart? Everything sounds cheesy or stupid.

We pull up in front of the museum.

“Good luck,” my driver says.

I lean forward and clap him on the shoulder. “Thank you. I’ll text when I need you.”

He nods. I get out and he drives off, and then I’m alone. Well, not really. There are dozens upon dozens of people milling around, gawking at the spiral architecture inside the building. I buy a ticket and make my way around the spiral. Fuck. Where is she?

My hands are sweaty and my heart is thrumming as I continue up the wall. What if she left already? Should I call her? Or should I—

And then I see a blonde staring at a piece of art on the wall. It’s a stretch of canvas over wood with a bunch of nails hammered into it. She’s tilting her head and scrutinizing it for meaning.

Here we go.

I come up behind her. “Gemma.”

When she spins around, her eyes are huge. “Aston? What are…um…” Her face flames as she starts to assume it’s pure coincidence I’m here at the same time. “Hi.”

“I came here looking for you,” I tell her. I can’t stop staring at her, drinking in her beauty. Fuck. She’s so fragile and so strong. Her eyes are closed off when they used to be so wide and kind and open to me. I did that to her. I hurt her. Shame lodges in my chest.

“But…why?”

“Because I love you,” I say. I don’t have smooth words to tell her. All I can say is what’s in my heart. I drop down on one knee, and people around us gasp and stop in place to stare. Our whole section goes quiet. A couple of people get their phones out and start recording me. I try not to flush under the scrutiny. “I love you, Gemma Sweeney. I was a fool to push you away.” I dig into my pocket and produce the ring box, and she gasps.

Other women in the crowd do the same. I try not to focus on them.

“Aston,” she breathes. Blinks. “I…”

“Gemma, I know I fucked things up with us. But I vow to you, right here and now, before…” I look around, “before this room full of strangers.” That earns me a few titters. “I vow to be an open book to you from now on. It’s scary, because you have the power to hurt me like no one else does.” My voice breaks a little at the end.

She just stares at me, open-mouthed, her chest heaving. Tears fill her eyes.

I take her hand in my free one. “Be my wife. Let me spend the rest of my life showing you how incredible you are. I’m only half a man without you by my side.”

Gemma presses her fist to her mouth and a sob breaks loose. I can tell she’s flooded with emotion, but she’s scared.

“I pushed you away. I didn’t listen. I was wrong. I’m listening now, and I’m here. Please say yes.” My heart is hammering so hard I’m sure it’s going to leap out of my chest. I can’t tell what she’s thinking or feeling. She just looks like she’s in pain.

Then she gasps and wraps her arms around me, and the place erupts in applause.

“Yes,” she cries out with a watery sob. “I will.”

I press grateful kisses to her face, cover her until my mouth tastes like her tears. Then I pull back and take the ring and slide it onto her finger. “I will be a good husband to you,” I tell her.

She pauses, and her face gets serious. “I will marry you. On one condition.”

“Name it.” I’d give her any fucking thing she wants.

“I want to help you find closure on your past,” she says. From the tone of her voice, I can tell she will brook no argument. That this is a firm demand. And while I’m petrified to open that door and see what’s there, I nod.

“Okay. I promise. We’ll seek closure together.”

The tension falls from her face. She wraps her arms around me and kisses me, and for the first time since I don’t even know how long, my heart is so light it could soar into the sky.