Chapter 5
DENZEL
I hate these gatherings. I hate the goddamn caviar, the ostentatious decorations that couldn't feed a toddler, the fake smiles and feigned interest.
Christ, I'm sick of people. But I have no choice—the family's annual banquet is mandatory. Show my face to the shareholders, shake hands with men whose combined net worth doesn't touch my left pocket.
"Progress reports on Davis Industries for the last quarter." Elias, my personal assistant, extended the iPad.
I scrolled. Each image tightened my jaw further. That family's existence alone stoked a fire in me I'd long stopped trying to hide. My thumb paused on a photograph of their youngest daughter-in-law.
She wore a cheap black dress—probably a few hundred dollars, nothing more. Her dark hair fell loose around a frame too thin, too fragile. Her lips pressed into a stiff, artificial smile.
"She's—"
"I know who she is, Elias." My voice came out rougher than intended. Regret flickered through me—that she could still affect me after all these years. That if she saw me now, her face would twist with disgust.
How could I forget those eyes? The deepest brown I'd ever seen, always smiling at me with that innocent warmth, never once looking at me with pity.
How could I not recognize them, even after everything had changed?
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to banish thoughts that would only drag me deeper into a mood I couldn't afford tonight.
Elias leaned in, scrolling past her image to the Bratz brothers. "They're requesting—"
"Not tonight, Elias." I turned to the window, voice flat.
"But they insist—"
"Not. Tonight. Elias."
The command was ice.
We arrived at the venue shortly after—the grandest hall in the heart of the Thorne empire's headquarters. Guests packed every corner, already deep in their tedious business negotiations.
I exhaled slowly, stepped out of the car, and silently cursed myself for caving to family pressure yet again.
"Stay clear until we leave. No more reports." The order was sharp, final.
The moment I crossed the threshold, the vultures descended. Fake smiles, rehearsed pleasantries, veiled attempts to lure me into deals. They'd try anything to siphon even a fraction of what I had.
I maintained a veneer of politeness, met their advances with clipped responses that sent them slinking away, disappointed but unsurprised. I never yielded.
Finally free of them, I drifted toward the bar. A drink. Solitude.
I stopped dead.
A familiar figure stood across the room—Wren, being harangued by her mother-in-law.
WREN
I should have known Abigail's "invitation" came with strings attached. But until those divorce papers were signed and sealed, I was still tethered to this family—still bound by the duties of a Davis wife.
The moment we stepped into the venue, the criticism began.
"What are you wearing?" Abigail's eyes raked over me with theatrical disdain. I'd chosen a simple black gown—elegant, understated, nothing flashy. Apparently, that was the problem.
"It's a dress, Abigail. It covers what needs covering."
Her nostrils flared. "It's tragic, is what it is. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to have the daughter-in-law of Davis Industries show up looking like she shopped at a discount rack? People will think we don't pay you enough to dress properly."
"Maybe they'll start a fundraiser." I smiled sweetly. "We could call it 'Save the Davis Daughter-in-Law from Fashion Poverty.'"
A vein pulsed in her temple. She hated when I didn't crumble.
"Your flippancy is exactly the problem, Wren. You have no idea how to conduct yourself with dignity. No wonder James—" She stopped herself, but we both heard the unfinished sentence.
"No wonder James what?" I pressed, though I already knew.
She waved a dismissive hand. "Never mind. The point is, you've upset him. Again. He's so distressed he couldn't even attend tonight, which means I have to represent this family alone—" She gestured grandly at herself, as if her presence was a burden we should all be grateful for. "—because his wife can't keep her composure for five minutes without creating drama."
"Ah. So James is too fragile to show his face because his feelings were hurt? Should we send him a sympathy card? Maybe some flowers?"
Abigail's eyes narrowed to slits. "You think this is funny? You think being a Davis is a joke? Let me tell you something—without this family, you'd be nothing. Less than nothing. You'd still be that pathetic orphan scraping for scraps, and don't you forget it."
The words landed like they were meant to—sharp and aimed to wound. But I'd heard this particular arrow before. I'd collected enough of them over three years to build armor.
"And yet here I am," I said calmly. "Still a Davis. Still standing here while you complain about my dress. Funny how that works."
She opened her mouth to retort, but I could see her pivoting. The dress attack hadn't drawn blood. Neither had the guilt trip. Time to wheel out the old standby.
"Three years, Wren." Her voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "Three years, and you still haven't given my son a child. Do you know what people say about that? About you? They say maybe there's a reason. Maybe some women just aren't meant to be mothers. Maybe some women are broken."
Broken.
The word hit differently tonight. Maybe because I'd spent the last forty-eight hours discovering just how broken this marriage really was. Maybe because I now knew—with sickening certainty—that the problem had never been me.
"Interesting theory," I murmured. "Have you considered that maybe the problem isn't in my uterus? That maybe your precious son—"
I stopped myself. Not because I owed her discretion, but because this wasn't the place. Not yet.
Abigail caught my hesitation and pounced. "What? You have something to say about my son? Go ahead. I'd love to hear what excuse you've fabricated to avoid your responsibility."
Responsibility. The word nearly made me laugh.
"Abigail." I kept my voice low, even. "I'm not having this conversation with you. Not here. Not ever."
"You'll have it when I say you'll have it—"
"No." Something in my tone made her pause. "You want to know why there's no baby? Keep pushing. Keep treating me like the help. Keep letting your son do whatever the hell he does while I'm supposed to smile and be grateful. Eventually, you might get your answer. But I promise—you won't like it."
For once, she had nothing to say.
I turned away before she could recover, scanning the crowd for an escape route. Any excuse to put distance between us.
That's when I felt it.
A gaze. Heavy. Intentional. Burning into the back of my neck like a brand.
I turned—
And for one breathless moment, I thought I was hallucinating.
He stood across the room, half-hidden in shadow near the bar—but I would have recognized that silhouette anywhere. The broad shoulders. The way he held himself apart from the crowd, like a predator surrounded by prey and thoroughly bored of the hunt.
I heard the whispers swirling around me—his name, his title, his endless wealth and status.
But all I heard was his name.
Denzel Thorne.
The name I'd buried so deep I thought it had turned to ash. The boy who'd appeared in my life like a storm and vanished just as quickly, leaving nothing but wreckage and questions I'd never gotten to ask.
The love that ended before it ever really began.
He was watching me. Even from here, even through the glittering crowd of strangers, his eyes found mine like they'd never stopped.
And my heart—foolish, traitorous thing that it was—remembered exactly how to ache for him.
