He had loved Ivy. She'd been his calm and his storm all at once. He remembered the curve of her smile, the warmth of her body, the way she used to trace circles on his skin.
Winn lifted his head slowly. "The one piece of happiness I thought I deserved," he murmured, staring at her porch light. "Just that little slice of heaven. But you couldn't stand me either, huh?"
He wasn't angry at her—he never could be. He was angry at himself for being his father's son, for not knowing how to love, for scaring her away.
Where did he go wrong? They were happy, weren't they? Or at least, he had thought they were.
She loved him. Of that, Winn had no doubt. No one could fake that kind of devotion. He remembered the first time she said it. And she gave herself to him—completely, vulnerably. Her first time. He still remembered how he had made it about her.
He had told her then, bluntly, cruelly even, that their marriage was a business move—a façade to strengthen investor confidence.
