Page 23 of Not His Bride

I work tirelessly over the next several days. I decided on candles as my first launch.

A few of the suppliers send over sample kits. The candle wax blends arrive first. I open the shipping box with a kitchen knife. Inside sit three glass jars in shades of smoke, black, and deep wine. Fittingly, the scents are Smoky Gray—meant to feel like a bonfire on a dark, drizzly day—Raven Claw, which smells like earthy topsoil with a slight undertone of metal, meant to represent a raven giving you a gift. The last scent is titled Velvet Wine, which has a potent red wine scent. Both the scents and the aesthetic hit exactly as I had hoped.

I line them up on the kitchen counter. I’m already picturing the boutique display, every box propped open to let the color pop.

I move the candles to my accent wall and shelf, and stare at them. This is what it means to be mine.

Gallagher crosses my mind before I can stop him. Specifically, the way he said that maybe we could be friends. Teenage me would’ve been ecstatic; I probably would’ve replayed the conversation for weeks.

But this version of me can’t get past what happened at our wedding. I believe he regrets it, but that doesn’t erase hearing him admit that he wanted Debbie first, or knowing that I only became his bride because she wasn’t available.

And friendship feels almost stranger than marriage right now. How am I supposed to sit across from him over coffee and pretend there isn’t annulment paperwork hanging over our heads?

Still, I agreed to spend one day with him. Maybe that says something I’m not ready to process yet. I haven’t heard from him about it yet, so I can only hope that he’s not ready to process it, either.

The next day, I see that Mr. Ziterweigen himself emailed me with a subject line of URGENT. When I first see it, I assume it’s the standard please fix whatever your father and Debbie have broken. Normally I’d draft a simple response, apologizing and explaining that I am not associated with Jovi Group, but this is Maison Ziterweigen, a powerhouse in the industry. So by the time I open the email, I know full well that simply won’t do.

Instead, the first line is: “Lilith, are you available for a call today? There is something I would like to discuss.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m at my kitchen table with a mug of black tea, the laptop propped open. The rest of the apartment is quiet except for a bird outside my window.

His face pops up on the video call. He’s older than even my father but more approachable with blue eyes, tortoiseshell glasses, confidence, and a dazzling smile that goes all the way up his sharp cheekbones. It makes me wonder what he thinks when he sees me in a black tee and my signature choker, hair still damp from the shower.

“Hello, Mr. Ziterweigen.”

He skips the pleasantries, which is so unlike him. “I was not expecting to work with your sister after your departure. She is very impressive in public, but—” He shrugs, expressive even through digital lag. “Nothing gets done.”

He keeps going. “You are the only person I spoke with in five years who could negotiate a solution. Since you left, the emails go unanswered for days. There are mistakes. The Portugal launch is chaos. I’m not surprised, but I am disappointed.”

“I understand your frustrations, Mr. Ziterweigen, but unfortunately, I am not consulting for the Jovi Group and would prefer not to take on any projects related to them,” I say. “Not now, nor in the future.”

“No, no, I apologize,” he says. “I’m calling for you.”

“For me?”

He nods, waiting for me to catch up. “You are the only reason that project ever worked. I’m not interested in a ‘face’ anymore. When your new business is up and running, I’d love to collaborate.”

I stare at the screen, not sure what to say that doesn’t sound unprofessional. I think about Debbie’s photo ops, her long arms around bouquets and branded perfume bottles. Then I think about the midnight emails that I personally handled.

He’s not wrong.

“You understand I cannot discuss Jovi in any capacity,” I say finally. “No matter my reason for leaving them, I won’t talk badly about a competitor.” I only say this because he started our discussion talking about my family’s issues, and for ethical and legal sake, I won’t say anything.

He appears pleased. “That’s why I trust you. You won’t have to worry about me working with Jovi at the same time. My team is already working on ending our collaboration, so I can switch gears to you. When I’m able, I will reach out again.”

The next part is pure Ziterweigen. “I wish we had met under different circumstances. You are very, very good at what you do. I look forward to seeing you.”

I thank him, voice even, and confirm that I will not communicate with his teams until the contracts conclude.

We hang up, and I don’t know if what I’m feeling is pride or relief. The legacy is gone. And this time, the industry isn’t talking about my family…they’re talking about me.

Chapter 11

Gallagher

There are countless ways to spend a billion dollars on a woman.

I could buy her jewelry, book us the best table in Manhattan, fly her to a private island. Anyone with a working black credit card and a taste for press could do all of that before noon.