Page 73 of The Temporary Bride

“You’ve got to promise to take care of yourself,” she murmurs, her voice tinged with concern. “And remember, I’m always here if you need someone to talk to.”

She releases me from her embrace and turns to leave. I watch her go, her words echoing in my mind like a gentle refrain.

Now alone in my office, I sit in silence for a long moment, staring at the photograph. Staring at Iris Burnham’s thick, flawless hair and lithe, willowy figure.

Tristan and I may be bound by marriage, but our connection is built on shaky ground, a fragile facade that could crumble at any moment. And if I’m not careful, I could be the one left shattered in its wake.

I take a shuddering breath, then pull a notepad out of my desk drawer and uncap a pen. I carefully jot down the words, each stroke of the pen intentional—I might need this reminder.

It’s a marriage of convenience, nothing more. Don’t forget that Tristan Thorne is the enemy.

As the ink dries, the unease intensifies in my chest. Even writing it down feels wrong.

I slip the notepad back into my desk drawer, tucking it away as if hiding it from my own thoughts. I don’t hate Tristan. He doesn’t feel like the enemy or even a rival anymore. Instead, he’s slowly getting under my skin, making me care about things I never thought I would. Making me care about him.

I can’t help but glance at the picture again, the image burning itself into my mind like a brand. Tristan and his ex, standing together outside the restaurant, her hand resting possessively on his arm.

There’s probably an innocent explanation for that. But still, I can’t stop myself from replaying Iris Burnham’s confident words in my head.

That loveless marriage will be over in three years. Then maybe we’ll get the chance to try again.

My phone vibrates on the desk, breaking the uneasy silence of the office. Glancing at the caller ID, I see Tristan’s name flashing on the screen. A surge of conflicting emotions washes over me—part of me wants to ignore the call, to avoid the inevitable confrontation that awaits, but another part knows I need to answer. We’re in business together now.

And sure, yeah. There’s a third part of me that looks forward to hearing his voice, even with the photo evidence of his run-in with Iris still glaring at me from my computer screen.

I clear my throat as I answer the call. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he says, his voice as casual as ever. “Are you busy at the moment?”

The conflicting emotions churning inside me make it hard to form a coherent response, but I push through, determined to maintain some semblance of composure. “Not really. What’s up?”

“I’ve locked down a possible location for Eclipse Studios, and I’d like you to see it before anything is set in stone. Any way you could leave the office for a bit?”

“Sure,” I say, somewhat reluctantly. “Just tell me where.”

I jot down the address he gives me, my fingers trembling slightly as I end the call. With a deep breath to steady my nerves, I gather my things and head out to meet him.

As my driver navigates through LA’s traffic, I try to focus on the passing scenery, but my mind keeps returning to the image of Tristan and Iris outside the restaurant. It’s like a splinter in my thoughts, a nagging reminder of the uncertainty creeping into our relationship.

How am I going to face him, with that hanging over me? How can I act like everything is normal when we both know it’s not?

The location Tristan has chosen for Eclipse Studios is nestled within West Hollywood, surrounded by similar facilities. It’s a sleek, modern building flanked on either side by stucco walls. Palm trees line the front entrance, their fronds waving in the hot breeze.

Inside, the building is clean and sophisticated, but empty, like a blank canvas waiting for someone to paint their vision upon it. The polished floors reflect the soft glow of the overhead lights, casting a surprisingly warm ambiance throughout the space. Large windows allow sunlight to filter in, illuminating the open lobby.

I can’t help but feel a sense of possibility lingering in the air. It’s as if the building itself is holding its breath, waiting for the creative energy of Eclipse Studios to fill it with life.

Tristan stands in the center of the lobby, waiting for me. He smiles when he sees me. “Hey. Glad you could make it.”

Despite his warm welcome, I can’t help but feel a slight chill in my demeanor. It’s not intentional but a reflexive defense mechanism, a way to protect my heart from my tumultuous emotions.

Before I can figure out a good response—something cool and detached, something that will keep me emotionally safe—a tall, well-built man in a tailored suit approaches us, adjusting his glasses and brushing champagne curls behind one ear. He smiles warmly, holding out a hand.

“You must be Chloe Dawson,” he says. “I’m Russell Daley. I’m the agent representing the property.”

“It’s a pleasure,” I say, taking his hand to shake it.

Russell gestures toward a hallway. “Let me give you guys the tour.”