Your Love, My Ruin

BRONWYN

When my husband admitted he'd fallen for Ophelia—the girl my birth parents raised in my place—I divorced him and went home to Althea Meritt, the woman who raised me.

Darius tried everything to win me back. I said no every time.

Then Althea's heart gave out. The ambulance pulled up to our door, and Darius stepped in front of it.

"Bronwyn, I know you can't stand Ophelia. I'll put her on a plane tonight. Just come home, and you can have anything you want."

"Are you really going to stand here and watch Althea suffer because you're too proud?"

She was gray on the stretcher, barely breathing. I said yes.

After that, he did whatever I asked. He put shares of his company in my name. Even my birth parents—who'd spent ten years punishing me for not being Ophelia—suddenly couldn't do enough for me.

I believed them. I was one signature away from handing Darius the patent that could save Calder Capital.

Then, on my birthday, I stopped at a bakery to pick up the cake I'd ordered for myself—no one else ever remembered—and glanced through the window of the restaurant next door.

Darius was in there, celebrating Ophelia's birthday. A little boy sat on her lap—three, maybe, with Darius's dark eyes. And Genevieve Croft, my birth mother, was sliding a stack of papers across the table: the transfer of the Croft family shares.

"Ophelia, darling, you've been through so much. When can you finally come home to us?"

Darius caught her wrist. "Genevieve, watch what you say around Bronwyn about the transfer. Hugo almost blew it last time."

I went very still.

Then I smiled, tucked the cake box under my arm, and walked in.

——

"Bronwyn... what are you doing here?"

The moment I stepped into the private dining room, everyone froze.

Darius moved without thinking. He put himself between me and Ophelia.

The first time he chose her, it had felt like a knife in my chest. This time, I felt almost nothing.

Today was Ophelia's birthday. It was mine, too.

Hugo Croft, my birth father, lost me at a county fair when I was two. A year later, the Crofts adopted a little girl from a children's home—a girl nobody had a birth certificate for. So Genevieve gave her my birthday. By the time they found me at eighteen, Ophelia had owned that date for fifteen years.

Every year since, same restaurant, same corner table, everyone together to celebrate her.

Every year, they forgot to call me.

"Next year, Bronwyn. Next year we'll do something just for you."

They'd been saying it for ten years.

I set my cake box on the edge of the table.

"Bronwyn, please, let me explain." Darius crossed the room fast. "Milo—he was an accident. After you came back, I never saw Ophelia again, I swear. You always wanted a baby. I brought him here so you could raise him with me. If you can't handle that, I'll move them to Europe. You'll never have to see them."

Milo peeked out from behind Ophelia's chair, a stuffed rabbit clutched to his chest, his big solemn eyes on me.

Hugo and Genevieve exchanged a look. Finally, Genevieve couldn't hold it in.

"Bronwyn, please don't send Milo away. He's all Ophelia has left. You already have me, your dad, and Darius... just let her have the boy."

Ophelia hovered by the table, twisting her napkin. "Mom, don't blame her. She has every right to be mad. It's on me. Darius and I... we just got carried away. I should have been more careful."

"Bring Milo," I said quietly. "It's time to go home."

They all stared at me. Nobody had expected me to be calm.

Darius looked like he hadn't heard right. "What?"

I gave him a small smile. "It's too hard for her out there alone. Bring them both home."

That only made him more nervous. "Bronwyn, if you're upset, don't bottle it up. Talk to me. Please."

I met his eyes. "I'm not upset. Milo is your son. Taking him in is what I'm supposed to do."

His eyes went red at the rims. "You're really not angry with me? About Ophelia... and Milo?"

I shook my head.

He let out a long breath.

That night, Ophelia moved in, and Hugo and Genevieve packed overnight bags and came along to help her settle.

Everyone was so happy.

Even Genevieve—who never set foot in a kitchen because grease was "murder on the skin"—made dinner herself. Ten years since I'd come home, and it was the first time I'd eaten anything she cooked.

She spooned another serving onto Ophelia's plate. "Look how thin you are, sweetie. Eat up. You need to keep your strength up for Milo."

Darius set a shrimp on my plate. "Why aren't you eating? You love shrimp."

Seven years, and he still didn't know I was allergic to shellfish. Ophelia was the one who loved shrimp.

He peeled one and held it to my lips.

I turned my face away.

Hugo's chair scraped back. He grabbed the dish of shrimp scampi and flung it at me. Hot butter splashed across my chest and burned straight through my blouse.

"I thought you'd finally grown up enough to welcome Ophelia. Who's that sour face for? If you're that jealous, at least have the spine to say so instead of sitting there like a martyr."

I gripped my fork so hard my knuckles ached. Then, without a word, I took the shrimp from Darius's fingers and ate it.

Within minutes, hives crawled up my neck and arms.

Darius went pale. He ran upstairs for the antihistamines and pressed two into my mouth. "Bron, why didn't you say you're allergic?"

I looked at him. "I didn't want anyone's effort to go to waste. Besides, you told me once that if I just kept eating it, I'd probably grow out of it."

In ten years, I'd told them ninety-nine times. Nobody ever remembered.

"I'm done. Enjoy your dinner."

Darius caught my hand. "Don't you ever hurt yourself like that again. Althea would worry."

I stopped.

That wasn't concern. That was a threat.

Back in my room, I called Linnea.

"Sell the patent and my shares to Elisar. And book Althea and me out of here a week from today. She'll need medical transport."