Chapter 10 - CONNOR ASKED ME TO TAKE HIM BACK, AND FOR ONCE HE ACCEPTED THE ANSWER WITHOUT TRYING TO CHANGE IT
Connor waited five years.
That detail mattered.
He did not ask during divorce.
Not after Clara was born.
Not during his therapy phase where every sentence sounded like it came with an invoice.
Five years.
Then one evening after an Apex strategy dinner, he asked if I would walk outside.
Clara was with my aunt.
No emergency.
Atlanta spring.
Warm.
We stood near Piedmont Park.
Connor looked older.
Forty-five.
Gray at temples.
Less polished.
Better.
“Gwen.”
“Yes?”
“I need to ask something once.”
My body tightened.
He noticed.
“Only once.”
“Okay.”
“If I ask, you are allowed to say no.”
“Generous.”
He smiled.
Then:
“Would you ever consider trying again with me?”
Silence.
There it was.
I had imagined this moment years earlier.
In angry fantasies, I would laugh.
Walk away.
Mention Paige.
Mention eighty million.
Mention DNA.
Real life was quieter.
I looked at the man I had loved for more than a decade.
Still cared for.
Probably always would in some strange way.
“No.”
His eyes filled.
He nodded.
“Okay.”
No:
Why?
No:
I’ve changed.
No:
Clara needs—
Nothing.
He simply breathed.
I was almost angry at how much that affected me.
“You don’t want to argue?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because if I’m only changed when your answer is yes, then I’m not changed.”
There.
Good.
We walked another few steps.
Then Connor said:
“Can I ask why?”
I smiled.
“That is technically a second question.”
“Fair.”
I thought.
Then answered anyway.
“Because I trust you again in some ways.”
“Business.”
“Truth.”
“Boundaries.”
“But I do not want to rebuild romantic trust.”
He nodded.
“I understand.”
“And because my life is not waiting for the corrected version of our marriage.”
That hurt him.
I saw.
Still.
He nodded.
“Good.”
There.
He laughed.
“You stole my word.”
“It was mine.”
Then:
“Are you dating?”
“Sometimes.”
“Anyone serious?”
“No.”
At that time, true.
Three months later, I met Daniel Mercer.
No relation to Sloan.
Thank God.
I almost refused a second date because of the surname.
He thought that was hilarious after I eventually explained.
Daniel was forty-two.
Widowed.
Architect.
One daughter, Sophie, age ten.
He had no connection to finance.
When I explained voting shares, he said:
“Sounds exhausting.”
Perfect.
We met because he was overseeing renovation of a children’s community center funded by an Apex charitable partnership.
Not through company employment.
Separate nonprofit.
I liked that he asked questions.
Then listened to answers.
The first time he met Clara, he did not bring a huge gift.
He brought sidewalk chalk.
Connor would have bought a pony.
Daniel drew a terrible dinosaur.
Clara loved him.
Slow.
Good.
After a year, we became serious.
I told Connor because Clara had occasional contact with him at company events and I did not want surprise.
He stared.
“Architect?”
“Yes.”
“Daniel Mercer?”
“Yes.”
“The guy who criticized our Midtown facade?”
I laughed.
“You remember?”
“He called it emotionally defensive.”
“He was right.”
Connor looked personally wounded.
Good.
Then:
“Is he good to you?”
“Yes.”
“Clara?”
“Yes.”
Connor nodded.
“Then I hate him responsibly.”
I laughed.
Progress.
Daniel and I did not rush.
At forty-something, romance has calendars.
School pickups.
Work travel.
Dead spouses.
Ex-husbands.
Therapy.
His daughter Sophie liked Clara.
Clara worshiped Sophie.
Beatrice eventually met Daniel and stared at him as if evaluating acquisition potential.
I said:
“Do not.”
She sighed.
“I said nothing.”
“You thought loudly.”
Good.
Years changed everyone.
Paige rebuilt her career outside Apex.
No return.
She and Derek became effective parents.
Connor maintained occasional contact with the twins as a family friend with their parents’ permission.
At age six, James called him “C.”
Julian called him “Mr. Fancy Shoes.”
Connor pretended offense.
He kept every drawing.
Beatrice eventually sent the boys letters of apology through Derek.
No gifts.
Smart.
Derek accepted letters.
Whether the boys would read later was their parents’ choice.
Good.
Albright Apex grew.
My governance role shrank intentionally.
I appointed more independent directors.
Converted a portion of my voting power into a stewardship structure under my father’s amendment.
Not all.
Enough that no single family member could ever again decide the company was a household possession.
Connor supported.
Beatrice hated it.
Then admitted it was wise.
Growth.
One evening Daniel asked:
“Do you ever miss being an Albright?”
I thought.
“No.”
“Connor?”
“Sometimes.”
He did not flinch.
Good.
“Does that bother you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Missing a person is not the same as wanting the life back.”
There.
He understood.
That was when I knew I could marry him someday.
May you like
Not because he erased Connor.
Because he did not need to.
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