Thank you so much for reading my books.
Thank you so much for your continued support.
Thank you so much for believing in my characters and stories as much as I do.
Dreams really do come true.
Tee
xoxoxox
Read on for the first chapter of T L Swan’s backlist title Mr. Masters, available to buy now!
Prologue
ALINA MASTERS 1984–2013
WIFE AND BELOVED MOTHER. IN GOD’S HANDS WE TRUST.
Grief. The Grim Reaper of life.
Stealer of joy, hope, and purpose.
Some days are bearable. Other days I can hardly breathe, and I suffocate in a world of regret where good reason has no sense.
I never know when those days will hit, only that when I wake, my chest feels constricted and I need to run. I need to be anywhere but here, dealing with this life. My life.
Our life. Until you left.
The sound of a distant lawn mower brings me back to the present, and I glance over at the cemetery’s caretaker. He’s concentrating as he weaves among the tombstones, careful not to clip or damage one as he passes. It’s dusk, and the mist is rolling in for the night.
I come here often to think, to try to feel.
I can’t talk to anyone. I can’t express my true feelings.
I want to know why.
Why did you do this to us?
I clench my jaw as I stare at my late wife’s tombstone.
We could have had it all . . . but, we didn’t.
I lean down and brush the dust away from her name and rearrange the pink lilies that I have just placed in the vase. I touch her face on the small oval photo. She stares back at me, void of emotion.
Stepping back, I drop my hands in the pockets of my black overcoat.
I could stand here and stare at this headstone all day—sometimes I do—but I turn and walk to the car without looking back.
My Porsche.
Sure, I have money and two kids who love me. I’m at the top of my professional field, working as a judge. I have all the tools to be happy, but I’m not.
I’m barely surviving; holding on by a thread. Playing the facade to the world.
Dying inside.
Half an hour later, I arrive at Madison’s—my therapist.