The Trouble With Us: A Second Chance Love Triangle (The Forbidden Love 2)

“Is Nikki available?” I ask, already bored with her antics. “Please let her know it’s her son, Will.”

“Oh, you’re her son?” Natacha straightens her posture, only now attempting to act professionally. “Please go in. Her office is—”

“Down the corridor on the left,” I interrupt with a forced smile.

I don’t stick around to converse any longer, making my way toward my mother’s office. There’s a slight chill in the air; it catches my attention, if only for a moment. With a knock on the door, she yells for me to come in. As I enter the room, her face brightens at the sight of me.

“Who is this handsome man visiting me tonight?” She stands up from her leather chair, extending her hands until I place my own in hers. “Look at you, all grown up.”

“I was all grown up the last time I saw you, Mom. And that was only a month ago.”

“But now you’re wearing glasses,” she points out with a knowing grin. “The ladies will get their panties in a twist over this.”

I tilt my head with a cocky grin. “Hmm, like Natacha with a C?”

Mom rolls her eyes with a pinched expression. “I should have hired someone with a regular spelled name, so every person who walks through the god damn office doesn’t have to hear it.”

“C’mon, Mom,” I muse, “you’ve been in the game long enough. Rookie mistake.”

She purses her lips, letting go of my hands to caress my cheek, then motions for me to take a seat. I’ve always admired Mom’s office, much like me—she’s a minimalist. Every single item on her glass desk is strategically placed down to her pens being aligned beside her diary.

“As you know, your father’s birthday is coming up.”

“The whole world knows, Mom,” I drag, resting my elbow on the armchair. “You know Dad, everyone must celebrate his life and party like we’re at a keg party.”

“Remind me why I married him again?”

“We’ve been down this rabbit hole, and it’s filled with many things I wish I never heard,” I remind her with a stern voice, willing the unpleasant memories of Dad’s descriptive answer to disappear. “So, he wants a party? What’s new?”

“I’m thinking a weekend away, maybe Cancun? You think you can make it?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Will,” she threatens, reverting to her overbearing motherly ways. “I want more than I’ll see what I can do. Besides, what else do you have to do on the weekend? Or is there someone I should know about?”

I bow my head, keeping my expression fixed. Years ago, when news broke out about my affair with Amelia, Mom surprisingly didn’t say more than two words. It was bizarre, given that she’s opinionated on everything else going on in my life. However, Dad—he had more than enough to voice for them both.

The truth is—all blame was pointing toward me.

I was more experienced and older—therefore, I should have stopped anything happening between us. Then Dad rambled on about the whole “don’t shit where you eat” metaphor. I ended up zoning out. Like I needed any more misery to my already pained state.

As for our family’s relationship, I have no clue whether everyone is still as close as before. Frankly, it’s best I didn’t ask, or all blame will fall onto me once again.

And for the longest of time, the guilt ate away at me. Perhaps everyone was right. I should have been more responsible, and what if my foolish actions caused more damage than I ever imagined?

But the guilt disappeared like quicksand the moment the photo of the engagement surfaced online. Apparently, there was no damage at all because someone is able to move on. Not only did she move on, but she is also committing to someone else for life.

I grind my teeth, clenching my fists only to tilt my head from side to side, cracking the muscles in my neck. The small movement is enough to control my anger, which is starved for attention. What’s fucking new?

“Will,” Mom says, lowering her voice, “there’s something you should—”

A gentle knock on the door interrupts her.

“Come in,” Mom calls, letting out a sigh.

The door creaks open, and oddly so, no greeting from the person entering. A loud sound catches my attention, forcing me to turn around to see a woman on the floor with what appears to be a freshly damaged phone.

My heart stops beating; a lump forming inside my throat as air is trapped and unable to escape. I recognize the hands touching the ground before anything. Soft, dainty, perfectly manicured without the ridiculous fake nails women often wore.