I must have been bad in my last life, because I feel like I’m being punished for something. I’ve loved two men in my life. One I lost to death.

The other . . .

I rest my hand under my chin and stare into space, wondering if I could have handled yesterday better.

There’s no question I could have.

But . . . I stand by what I said. I don’t want anyone to adopt my boys. I won’t give over that power to someone else.

Even if that someone is the love of my life. It’s not just Tristan—this isn’t personal. This is sensible.

They are Wade’s sons. They will always be Wade’s sons.

My every instinct is telling me this is something that I should never do.

Always trust your gut.

A message comes through on my phone. It’s from Tristan.

Can we talk?

Relief fills me. I write back.

Please.

He replies.

Our hotel,

1pm.

I smile, hopeful.

See you then.

I love you.

xoxox

At one o’clock I hold my breath as I walk into the foyer of our hotel. We’ve been here many times before. Always in excitement.

Today it’s in dread.

Tristan stands over near the elevator, and my stomach flutters when I see him wearing his power suit and standing the way he does, straight and proud.

I know that if he really wants something, it’s nonnegotiable.

“Hi.” I smile.

“Hello.” He dips his head, and in that moment fear runs through me.

He’s not going to let this go.

I’m going to lose him.

We get into the elevator and ride up to our floor in silence.

Oh my God . . . no. Don’t let this happen.

I stand behind him silently as he opens the door, and I walk in and take a seat on the bed.

He closes the door and walks straight to the bar and pours himself a scotch. “Do you want a drink?”

“No, thanks.”

In slow motion he sips his scotch. His eyes hold mine.

“Tristan . . . what I said yesterday—”

“Yes,” he cuts me off. “Let’s talk about that.”

Nerves begin to thump in my chest. “You need to understand where I am coming from. I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” I pause.

“But?”

“But I made promises to my first husband. These children are his, and I need to honor his wishes.”

He clenches his jaw; his eyes hold mine.

“We decided to live in that house for a reason.”

“Such as?”

I smile, grateful that he’s at least listening to me.

“Wade wanted that house. We could have afforded better, but he wanted that house. He wanted the boys to grow up in Long Island.”

He stares at me, and I have no idea what he’s thinking.

“He wanted the boys to go to a public school, and yet I let you take them out.”

He screws up his face in anger. “You would keep them in a school that is no good for them, just to prove a fucking point?”

“No,” I stammer as I begin to panic. “You were right on that one. I know you were—it was for the best.”

I wring my hands in front of me. “I’m stressed out. I feel like I’m losing control, and I just want things to stay the same between us.”

He puts his hands in his suit pockets and smiles as he drops his head in amusement.

Oh no . . . I know that look.

“So . . . what you are saying, Claire, is that you want me to step in and be Wade.”

My face falls. “What? No.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I don’t. I swear.”

“You want me to live in Wade’s house, with Wade’s wife . . . with Wade’s children.”

I stare at him.

“What about fucking me, Claire?” he cries. “Where the fuck is my life?”

My eyes fill with tears at his anger. “Tristan,” I whisper.

“I want my own wife, Claire, with my own children and to live in a fucking house that we choose together.”

Tears overfill my eyes, and I swipe them away angrily.

“You told me when we met that there were three hearts connected to yours.” He begins to pace. “Did you not?”

I stay silent.

“Answer me . . . fuck it!” he screams.

I jump. “Yes.”

“So now that I’m in love with those hearts, and I want them as my sons”—he glares at me—“you tell me that I can’t have them?”

His silhouette blurs. “Tristan,” I whisper. “Please try and see this from my point of view.”

“You’re selfish, Claire.” His eyes fill with tears.

I drop my head as fear overwhelms me. I’m going to lose him too.

“I deserve to have my own family.”

“I know you do,” I murmur.

“I want the boys as mine.”

“Tristan.” I shake my head. “I can’t.”

He clenches his jaw. “You know . . . my mother told me way back then . . . that they would always be another man’s sons, that you would always be another man’s wife.” His eyes hold mine. “That you would never truly be my family—I would always be the stand-in.”

I screw up my face in tears. He’s so hurt.

He shakes his head. “I can’t live with that, Claire.”

“What are you saying?” I whisper.

His eyes hold mine. “I’m saying goodbye . . . I’m nobody’s backup plan.”

I try to contain my sobs. “No, Tris,” I beg.

His haunted eyes hold mine . . . a silent beg for me to stop him.