Ten Years a Stand-in Wife—Old Money Only Recognizes Me Chapter 19

Ten Years a Stand-in Wife—Old Money Only Recognizes Me Chapter 19

His voice was very low.

His breath brushed across my forehead.

“It’s my good luck you’re the one who came.”

My heartbeat skipped.

Then slammed back in, hitting my chest hard with a thud.

His lips touched my forehead.

Very lightly.

Just a touch.

But that brief warmth spread from my brow bone all the way down to my feet.

He straightened up, as if nothing had happened, returned to his chair, picked up his cup, and went on drinking coffee.

Calm expression.

Reading the newspaper.

But the tips of his ears were red.

Adrian-thirty-eight years old, head of Shaw Group, widely known in Arcwood’s elite circles as the

coldest man alive.

His ears were red.

I lowered my head and bit my lip.

The cup in my hand shook slightly, and the coffee surface rippled in fine circles.

Well.

I’d just focus on the coffee.

November.

“Dad, when did you find out?”

“The day you signed up.”

“You didn’t even change the password. Birthday plus jersey number. You think it’s hard to guess?”

Ethan’s face turned beet red.

“Dad, you’re invading my privacy!”

“I didn’t read your content. I just knew you had an account.”

“That still counts! I’m going to sue you!”

“Go ahead. Your mom’s legal team has thirty-seven lawyers. Can you afford them?”

Ethan opened his mouth.

Then turned to me.

“Mom-can I use your team?”

“You pay your own legal fees.”

“I don’t have money…”

“Then put it on your tab.”

He huffed, stuffed the plastic scissors into his pocket, and pouted so hard it looked like he could hang a kettle from his mouth.

Jenifer watched from the side, the wrinkles at her eyes folding into a fan-like smile.

“A family,” she said, her voice carrying a heavy, satisfied warmth. “A real family.”

She said it twice.

Each time with a different weight.

The first was emotion.

The second was a stamp of approval.

A gust of wind blew through the entrance of the art center, lifting fragments of red ribbon into the air, flipping them over, holding them there for a brief second.

November sunlight slanted down.

Golden.

Warm.

I stood in the light.

My child on my left, my husband on my right, and behind me an eighty-three-year-old woman gently patting my back.

“Stand straight,” she said. “You are a Shaw.”

“And you are also yourself.”

I straightened up.

My spine lifted one vertebra at a time.

Shoulders opened.

Chin slightly tucked.

Ten years ago, I couldn’t have held this posture.

Now I can.