I Was His Secret Genius, Now I’m His Biggest Regret Chapter 32

I Was His Secret Genius, Now I’m His Biggest Regret Chapter 32

The letter was on the table in Ava’s apartment. Ethan had left it there.

She returned late that night from her small distillery, carrying the scent of malt and new oak, and saw the familiar envelope stamped with the Montgomery family crest.

She didn’t open it immediately. Instead, she took a shower, changed into a clean T-shirt and cotton pants, and poured herself a small glass of Angel’s Share.

The liquid in the glass was a beautiful amber. She sat by the window, looking out at the Nashville night, and read Clayton’s letter line by line.

After she finished, she didn’t cry or laugh. She folded the letter carefully and placed it in the deepest drawer of her bedside table, alongside the now-finalized divorce papers.

She didn’t write back.

After that, Clayton didn’t appear in Nashville again. Ava’s life was once more filled with fermentation temperatures, oak barrel numbers, and the flavor profile of each new batch.

But a few weeks later, she began receiving letters from Kentucky.

They were not from Clayton. They were from the children.

Real paper letters, written in crayons and colored pencils, the stamps pasted on crookedly.

The first was from Beau. His handwriting was neater than before, but still a child’s.

“Mom, Daisy and I see Dr. Evans every Wednesday. He said that day in the tasting room, when I smashed your single-barrel bottle, it was a very, very serious mistake. It was an act of violence, and no matter how angry I am, I can never do that. I understand now.”

“I am very sorry. Every night I have nightmares about the bottle breaking at your feet. Dr. Evans said I can draw the things I’m afraid of. I did, but after I drew it, I missed you even more.”

On the back of the paper was a drawing.

A woman with long hair stood in front of rows of oak barrels. Beside her were two small figures holding her hands. A sun had been drawn above them, and beneath the sun was one line: “We miss you.”

The second letter was from Daisy. Her handwriting was even more crooked than Beau’s.

“Mom, I can’t remember why I hated the yeast smell on you so much. Dr. Evans said it was because Savannah lied to us and made us think it wasn’t dignified. But now I remember. You were the one who checked my homework every night, and when I was sick, you were the one who made me honey lemon water.”

“I threw away the bottle of bourbon-flavored syrup you made for me. I regret it so much. Mom, can you make me a little more? If you don’t want to, that’s okay. I just miss you.”

At the end of the letter, she had drawn a large heart, colored in so heavily with a red crayon that it had nearly gone through the paper.

Ava held the two letters and stood by the window for a long time. Outside, the gentle Tennessee evening wind carried the scent of grass and earth, entirely different from Kentucky bluegrass.

A warm drop of liquid fell on the letter, spreading through the red heart Daisy had drawn.