He should have told her about his belief that he couldn’t have children; he knew that. It was a fucking huge betrayal of trust to go into a marriage without telling the other party that you were unable to have kids. But he had wanted her—it had been crazy and irrational. He’d wanted to keep her in his bed, and the only way he could see himself doing so guilt-free was by marrying her. He’d had a vague idea that he’d somehow find a work-around to the humiliating “sorry, can’t have kids” conversation, and then before he knew it, she’d been telling him she was pregnant, and he had been fucking livid. He had watched her every move afterward like a hawk, hoping she’d reveal the identity of her lover to be anyone other than Harris. But the only man she’d been close to was Harris. Always fucking Harris. His brother and Olivia had always been tight. Always laughed and joked and talked . . . it hadn’t been that much of a stretch to imagine they’d taken that extra step toward intimacy.
Greyson swallowed the nausea the mere thought of Harris and Olivia together still had the power to produce.
The possibility had once seemed so damned real to him.
But he really should have known better, considering his brother seemed to harbor complex and intense feelings for someone other than Olivia. But Greyson had been irrational. The emotion he’d experienced had felt perilously close to jealousy. But that was ridiculous; he couldn’t be jealous. No woman, not even Olivia, was worth feeling jealous over.
And yet . . .
One year ago
The flowers were a little over the top. And uncharacteristic. Greyson pensively glared at the huge bunch of pale-pink peonies and seriously considered tossing them down the trash chute once he reached the penthouse.
But he wanted to do something nice for Olivia . . . he had been working full on in the month since their rushed wedding, and he’d been home late and gone early most days. He had stayed in London much too long while trying to win over Olivia. Two months. He had allowed too many minor tasks to lapse, and he’d been playing catch-up for a few weeks. In addition to that, something fishy was going on in one of their Australian branches, and he was working hard to figure it out. That meant staying in the office late to make conference calls with their Oceania Division VP.
Until he knew exactly what was happening, he was keeping it under wraps. Harris knew about it, of course, but Greyson wanted to be certain his suspicions were correct before he handed the matter over to his brother, the CFO. He knew he should have allowed Harris to take over by now . . . but the company was Greyson’s responsibility, and he liked to run a tight ship.
Today was the first time in weeks that he was home in time for dinner, and he wanted to surprise Olivia by treating her to a romantic meal at one of her favorite restaurants and lavishing some attention on her. He hadn’t seen much of her lately, and he . . .
He huffed a short, incredulous laugh as he turned the realization over in his head for a moment: he missed her.
He stepped out of the elevator, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He glanced down at the flowers again; it was a stupidly romantic gesture. But he wasn’t going to toss them down the chute. Peonies were her favorite flower, and he wanted her to have them. He wanted her to know that he had bought them with her in mind.
He opened the front door to their penthouse apartment, his entire body tensing in anticipation. He was excited to see her. He would apologize for his neglect and promise that things would get better soon.
The apartment was silent. No music or noise from the television. Just the loud, ominous ticking of the huge grandfather clock. Olivia had once told him it reminded her of—how had she put it?—every horror movie ever. The memory made him smile. She always made him want to laugh or smile with her offbeat observations and unintentionally funny insights.
“Olivia?” His voice bounced off the walls; the apartment was too large and sparsely furnished. Shortly after moving in, Olivia had told him the penthouse felt cold and unwelcoming, and he had suggested she redecorate. He wanted her to feel at home. And it wasn’t like he felt any particular connection to the stuff in here.
She had recently started looking at color and fabric swatches. And the coffee table in the living room was now laden with decor magazines.
Greyson wandered from room to room, hoping to find her in one of them, but he could tell that the penthouse was empty. Immensely disappointed, he moved to the huge chef’s kitchen—the one place in the penthouse Olivia truly appreciated—in search of a vase for the flowers.