Delaney James seems to have it all-a successful husband, a stylish Manhattan townhouse, and a thriving career in fashion journalism-until it all falls apart. Her husband leaves her, shattering the perfect life she once knew. Heartbroken and desperat...
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"He did what?" Nico shouts.
After Will told me he needed space, I decided I'd be the one to leave. I couldn't be in that house with him anymore. Not after what I saw. So, I packed enough for a few days, texted Nico to let him know I was coming over, and walked away from the man I love, and thought was my forever – the man I'm not sure is mine at all anymore.
I'm torn on how to feel. Half of me is furious at him. Furious and disgusted, not just because he broke our wedding vows and slept with another woman, but because he brought her into our home – our bed – and instead of being honest with me, he took the cowards way out and found a distraction. This all could have been avoided had he just told the truth.
The other half of me is devastated. When I think about the fact that my husband has been with someone else - that he's touched her body, and kissed her, and has been inside of her - I feel nauseous. It hurts that he cheated. It hurts more to know it's been an ongoing thing, and that he might have feelings for her. But what hurts the most is that he didn't respect me or the vows we took just five months ago, and if you don't have trust and respect, can you have a relationship at all?
"Can I stay here for a few days?"
"You know you don't need to ask." He opens his front door wider and gives me a soft smile. "Get your cute ass in here."
"Thanks."
I walk through the door and drop my bag, and as soon as I do, he wraps his long arms around me and pulls me into his chest. I grip the back of his t-shirt in my fists, breathing in his comforting scent of pine and laundry detergent, and let out a shaky sigh.
Nico Simone is the first person I met when I moved to New York. I was eighteen and fresh out of a small suburb in North Carolina, and after he saved me from a near death experience, we went for coffee and started talking. It was like I'd known him my whole life. We're different in so many ways, but he's the balance in my life when I need it, and the brother I never had.
"What can I do?" he asks. "Do you want me to kick his ass? Fuck up that pretty face of his? Oh! I could ask Dean at Manhattan Mocha to put MiraLAX in his morning coffee so he shits his pants in the middle of an important meeting or a trial. That could be fun."
I force a laugh as I rest my chin on his chest and look into his familiar, light-brown eyes. "Tell me you have bourbon."
"Do you even know me at all?" He stares at me adoringly and kisses the tip of my nose. "Go set yourself up in the guest room and I'll pour you a glass. I already ordered dinner. Sloan's going to pick it up on her way home."
"You're my hero."
"And don't you forget it," he responds, smirking.
Nico is a trust fund baby. His family moved to Manhattan when his father was offered a job as an anesthesiologist attending at New York Presbyterian Hospital. He went to a fancy private school, had a closet full of designer labels, and when his maternal grandfather – who'd run an extremely successful financial investment company – passed away, Nico was gifted a disgusting amount of money. His parents were afraid he'd spend it, so they put it in a trust he could access when he turned twenty-two.
