Read Online The Billionaire's Wife by Ava Claire - Free Book Online Page B

missed out on love and now she was losing her son. Both her sons. And there was no way to breakthrough and make her understand.
    I pushed away from the table, just wanting out. Not wanting to waste another iota of energy, but she reached out and gripped my arm.
    My mouth fell open, eyes dropping to her hand.
    She snatched back like she surprised herself. “About Cole—I wanted to keep him. He was a part of me. There’s not a moment that I don’t regret giving him away. But I had to make a hard choice. And I...”
    She trailed off and I expected her to say that she chose her husband. Her unhealthy, deeply unhappy marriage to a man who was only alive when he put an ocean between them.
    “I chose myself,” she admitted. “I didn’t want to live without Carlton. I didn’t want to be alone,” she finished.
    She let out a bitter chuckle. I wondered if it was the same brutal chuckle her mother had uttered when her daughter try to do something good. Something kind.
    “I did Cole a favor by not knowing me,” she said solemnly. “Just ask Jacob.”
    “If you truly believe that, then you’re a damn fool.” Jacob’s voice boomed from the doorway.
    Alicia and I both whipped toward his voice, but he ignored her completely. She didn’t exist. I hated that I felt sorry for her in that moment. Now that I had pieces of what made her tick, I knew that she hoped Jacob would see past it all and love her anyway.
    Alicia released a resigned sigh that followed me as I walked away. I left her story at the table. My story wasn’t done, and the hero of mine needed me.
    I took his hand. “Let’s go home.”
    When we stepped in the hall i tightened my grip on Jacob's hand. "About Cole-"
    "Not here," he seethed. Even in motion I could see the nerve ticking in his temple, the muscles locked and ready like he was about to step in the ring. I realized if I wasn't gripping his hand we wouldn't be holding hands at all.
    Once we were outside, I let go. He didn't even notice, blazing to the car.
    "Jacob."
    He came to a halt, but he did nothing more. Didn't turn. Didn't say a word.
    "I'm so s-"
    "Don't say that word." His words dripped like acid. Burning my ears. Burning holes into my heart. "Save your apologies for things that matter."
    I stormed to him, gripping his lapel with both hands. "Don't do that. This matters, Jacob."
    His eyes tore into me. Not with anger. Not with disgust, or annoyance. He looked at me with eyes filled with gut wrenching sorrow. Like someone who got a taste of something they never knew they wanted and had it snatched away before they could really dig in. Like any semblance of hope, or happiness, had gone out of his world.
    He looked like someone had destroyed him.
    I cradled his face in my hands. I wanted to take away all his pain. I wanted to fix this. But there was no remedy, no words or actions that could make this okay.
    His bright eyes lingered on mine, the scowl on his lips faltering. The voice that came out was solemn. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
    Even though my heart felt so heavy that I thought it would fall out of my chest and I knew the only way over this was through it, I respected his wishes. I held his hand in silence the whole way home, my fingertips stroking his and telling him that when he was ready to face the fallout, I’d be right beside him.

FOURTEEN
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    T he Dolores Brightman Gallery was a place one went to be seen.
    For all intent and purposes, it was a premier destination for artists who craved a more intimate experience. Originally it was used as a studio space in the exclusive Hayward neighborhood where the rent was ridiculously exorbitant considering its size—but brushing shoulders with celebrities, trust fund babies, and co-eds majoring in hipster came with a hefty price tag.
    Now, the Brightman Gallery was a modern space with crisp white walls and rich hardwood floors. The art was supposed to add the color, the richness that the bare bones design