Page 57 of The Temporary Bride

“How do you manage to snag a man like that?”

It’s one of the women with Iris, a blonde with her hair in a bun. Despite myself, I slow down slightly to listen to the reply.

“Oh, you know,” Iris says loftily. “It’s a matter of emotional intelligence. Knowing yourself.”

The other women nod, as if this is sage advice.

I really should just put in headphones to block them out, but I can’t help myself. I turn my head just a little to eavesdrop better on their conversation, straining to catch their words.

“I mean… Tristan Thorne!” the blonde woman exclaims, as if he’s a unicorn, or some other magical creature. “I’d kill for a man like that.”

I can feel my hackles rising. Why are they asking Iris about Tristan? She hasn’t managed to “snag” him. He’s married to another woman. To me.

“We were on again, off again for a while,” Iris admits, her tone tinged with reminiscence. “But every time we were apart, it felt like we grew as individuals, you know? And when we found our way back to each other, it was like we were stronger, more mature versions of ourselves.”

Her words send a ripple of murmurs across her group of friends and a surge of annoyance through me. I force myself to remain composed, keeping my expression neutral as I jog, but my chest is tight.

“If it weren’t for that arranged marriage nonsense,” Iris muses, “I have a feeling we would’ve circled back to each other eventually. We’re both at that stage in our lives, you know? Ready to settle down and commit. It’s just a shame that he had to go and tie himself to someone else.”

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut, and I swallow hard. From her perspective, I’m just an obstacle to her romance with Tristan, nothing more. It’s as if I’m merely a placeholder in his life, a convenient distraction from what could have been.

Iris laughs lightly, her next words slicing through the air like a knife. “Anyway, who knows how this will all shake out? That loveless marriage will be over in three years. Then maybe we’ll get the chance to try again.”

As she speaks, she glances over at me, her emerald eyes meeting mine. I realize with a jolt that she knows I’m here and that I can hear every word. She wasn’t saying all of that by accident, not knowing I was listening—she was saying it on purpose.

I force myself to maintain a composed exterior, clenching my jaw as I press a button on the machine to increase the speed.

Iris and her friends’ conversation moves away from Tristan, but the damage has been done, the seed of doubt planted firmly in my mind. Fueled by anger and hurt, my feet pound against the treadmill belt, my strides now choppy and uneven.

I can’t shake off Iris’s words, her casual speculation about the end of my marriage. She seems to think she can simply waltz back into Tristan’s life and pick up where they left off. As if I never existed. As if there was never anything between us but some paperwork and a corporate partnership.

Well, if she thinks it’s going to be that easy, she’s got another⁠—

“Shit!” I yelp.

I’ve been so fucking lost in my thoughts that I miss a step and land badly, twisting my ankle. It happens fast, a wrenching sensation, and I grab the handrails hard enough to leave marks in my palms. I get my feet off the belt without going down, which is something, at least. But it fucking hurts.

Cursing under my breath, I press the button to stop the treadmill, then take a second to collect myself, breathing deeply to slow my racing heart. I grimace as I gingerly assess the damage.

Already, I can tell there’s going to be a nasty bruise—probably worse. My workout has effectively been ended, so I limp toward the locker room with a stiff jaw.

I shower fast, throw on a skirt and a light blouse, and then check my reflection in the mirror, trying to gauge whether the swelling in my ankle is obvious in my high heels. I don’t think it’s very noticeable, and if I grit my teeth and focus, I can walk okay without limping.

Good enough.

Iris and her group are nowhere to be seen when I walk back through the main gym floor on my way out. At least there’s that.

The car takes me to Thorne Enterprises. I have an Eclipse Studios meeting scheduled with Tristan and the teams from Thorne and MediaSphere, and I’ve been preparing for it for days. I am not going to let a sprained ankle or Iris Burnham’s calculated little performance at the gym get in the way of me doing my damn job.

I ride the elevator to the top floor and walk down the corridor toward the conference room, measuring my stride carefully, keeping the weight distribution as even as I can manage.

When I push the conference room door open, everyone looks up. Both teams are already here, five people from each company arranged around the long table, laptops open, coffee cups in hand. Standing at the head of the table is Tristan. His gaze snaps to me immediately, tracking my movements. I do my best to conceal my limp as I skirt around the table and take the open chair at its opposite end.

I shift slightly as I sit down to ease the discomfort in my ankle. Tristan’s focus is still on me, fixed and intense, and for a second, his eyes narrow. Then he clears his throat, returning his attention to the rest of the conference room.

“Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”

There’s a murmur of agreement across the table. Each of our companies’ respective teams has five members present at this meeting, and everyone seems focused and excited.